


She Lit a Fire

by hannah_jpg



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, You Make Your Own True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: Éomer meets the daughter of Imrahil in Minas Tirith following the triumphant return from the Black Gate. To him, resentful from a failed love in his youth, she is perfect. Excepting the small detail of her being married to the Lord of Pelargir...





	1. Chapter 1

_1 May 3019 T.A., Merethrond_

"Éomer, you must smile! One might think you are staring down a horde of orcs."

Drawn from his gloomy reverie, Éomer glanced downward, forcing a smile for his sister. Éowyn had placed a hand on his arm, her eyes alight with the reflections from the candles in the massive hall and her own happiness. He could see Faramir standing somewhat behind them, obviously uncomfortable approaching in this personal moment.

"They are only  _ladies_ , Éomer," Éowyn continued with an ironic tilt of her brows. "Certainly no orc-pack."

"But just as frightening," he said, patting her hand. "It hardly matters, anyway. This will be  _your_ world, Éowyn, not mine."

She flushed then, and he wondered why. Of course—he was not supposed to know of Éowyn and Faramir. Faramir had not spoken to him about it yet, after all. Éomer could have laughed at that—the man was simply too formal sometimes! But it was the way of the Gondorian court. A blind man could have seen the affection between the new steward and Éowyn, and Éomer's sight was better than most.

"Anyway," he hastened to cover his blunder, "This great hall has little to do with me,  _sweoster_. Do not let my brooding damper your enjoyment."

Éowyn's brows pinched together. "This great hall has  _very much_ to do with you! You are the superior of everyone. Apart from Elessar," she added as an afterthought.

"I would rather be riding with my éored," Éomer said dryly. "Or mucking out stalls or even keeping accounts—I do not like this sort of fanciness, Éowyn. Not at all."

"Then you ought to meet a lady. A woman would change your opinion, I am certain!"

Éomer wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. That particular response would only cause her to redouble her efforts against him. "Éowyn, I have no intentions of attaching myself to any lady here. I may be out of place, but I understand the ways of the court perfectly."

"There is nothing wrong with Gondorian ladies! How can you be so dismissive, and for whatever cause? I have yet to see any hunchbacks or pug-noses—"

He laughed. "I should hope you think better of me than to dismiss pug-noses out of hand! I am not so shallow."

Éowyn pursed her lips. "Shallow enough not to give these women a chance. Éomer, please! You are not required to wed any lady you speak to!"

"Very comforting."

His sister tilted her head slightly to the side, studying his face. Oh, Béma. Éomer knew that look. She was thinking—an extraordinarily dangerous pastime. "I cannot fathom your negativity," Éowyn said softly.

"Can you not?"

"Oh, Éomer. Surely you are not still thinking of Aema!"

He looked away, hiding a frown as he stared out at the colorful dancers who whirled about Merethrond, their laughter sounding far away. Éowyn might have a causal perspective towards the woman he should have married, but he could feel the same. It was his pride that was still bruised, not hers.

"Éomer!" Éowyn said sharply, and he turned back to her in surprise. "It was  _years_  ago; the last I heard, she was wed and had two babes bouncing on her knee! You must let her go." This information was likely meant to shock Éomer, but he was already fully aware of Aema's circumstances. So he merely lifted his brows at his sister, and she shut her mouth with a glower.

"You!" she muttered fiercely under her breath. "Éomer, you are an utter—"

But he was not listening; his attention was drawn almost against his will towards a tall, dark-haired woman striding towards them. She was smiling broadly as her scarlet skirt swept behind her, and before he could even wonder how he or Éowyn knew this lady and why she might be wishing to speak to them, she laughed and swept past them, and Faramir swooped her up into an embrace. Éowyn clenched her fingers on Éomer's arm, and he winced.

"Lothíriel!" Faramir said, and he was laughing too, setting the woman back on her feet as he kissed her on each cheek. "I did not expect to see you here tonight!" The happiness in the steward's visage was apparent. Éomer had never seen the lines clear from his face, and he looked years younger.

"We have only just arrived," the woman replied. "I could not wait! Faramir, I am so glad you are well! In Father's last letter, he said—"

But Faramir put his finger to the woman's lips. "That is over, cousin," he said gently. Éowyn's grip relaxed, to Éomer's relief. "Do not trouble yourself over the war any longer!"

The woman laughed again. "I have no intention to! But you must introduce me to your shieldmaiden! I wish to welcome her."

"Of course!"

And Éowyn stepped forward, dragging Éomer with her as the woman turned to face them. She first regarded Éowyn with a kindly smile as Faramir said, "Éowyn, my love, this is my cousin Lothíriel. She is the youngest child and only daughter of Prince Imrahil, whom you have already met."

Éowyn curtseyed low, but Lothíriel was quick to clasp her hands and pull her back upwards. "I am happy to meet you at last!" she said. "I have not seen Faramir so light-hearted in years. I thank you!"

"Faramir is responsible for my own happiness," Éowyn said, returning the lady's smile. "I thank  _you_  for sharing him."

Lothíriel laughed. It was a lovely, unabashed sound, and Éomer could not help himself from staring. This woman was far different than most of the Gondorian ladies he had met; she was not at all reserved, and the sincerity in her pleasure in meeting Éowyn made her glow. Her features were nothing spectacular—she was no Aema—but it was clear that this Lothíriel had a good heart. Or was he projecting Imrahil's goodness upon his daughter?

"And this is  _my_  brother," Éowyn said, casting Éomer a quick glance which he interpreted as,  _Do not dare mess this up, you dolt_. "Éomer—er, King of the Riddermark." There was an awkward silence, and from the pang in his heart Éomer knew that Éowyn too was thinking of their uncle, who ought to be there celebrating. But he forced a smile nonetheless, and Lothíriel's eyes at last came to rest upon him.

There was a jolt in the region of his stomach. Éomer blinked stupidly. Her eyes were a warm grey, dancing with joy as she favored him with a lovely, beaming smile that quite transformed her face. Béma, he had been mistaken—she was beautiful! "My lord," she said, and made an elegant curtsey. "I am no less pleased to make your acquaintance. I have heard much of you from my brothers!"

"Only good, I hope," Éomer managed to say. Why was his throat dry? Could he suddenly not keep his wits around a woman?

"From Amrothos? I doubt that," Faramir interjected dryly. "Where are your brothers, Lothíriel? I should like to speak to them tonight."

"Oh, I haven't the faintest idea! They might have escaped, for all I know—Amrothos especially." The lady's color was high, and Éomer surreptitiously noticed strands of her dark hair escaping the knotted braids on her head. She was a perfect picture of liveliness. Her eyes flitted towards him again, as if she knew of his scrutiny, and he felt his ears burn red. But Lothíriel only smiled.

Éomer now noticed that Éowyn had released him, and taken Faramir's arm instead. He felt awkward standing alone, but it seemed he was the only uncomfortable one. Éowyn asked Lothíriel if all balls in Merethrond were this boisterous, and the lady laughed.

"Oh, no, this is a special occasion! Our more stringent customs have been quite thrown out the window since the war." As she spoke, a black-clad man had approached them, coming up behind Lothíriel. Without a word he placed his hands on her arms from behind, and leaned down to kiss her creamy shoulder.

"What tales are you telling the guests, Lottie?" he asked in a deep voice, his fingers reaching up to fiddle with her filigree earrings. Nausea rolled in Éomer's gut—of course. A noblewoman as beautiful and charming as she would have many admirers. Béma, didn't he just have the worst luck! This man was tall and dark-haired, slender as most Gondorian men were with an easy smile. His roving lips moved Lothíriel's cheek next, and she began to giggle.

"I never tell tales!" Lothíriel declared. She wove her arm through the man's, and if she was embarrassed at his show of rather shocking affection, she did not show it, instead prodding the man in the ribs with a slender finger. "But if you continue to creep up on me in such a way, I may start telling tales of  _you_."

Faramir spoke next, drawing all eyes to him. "Lord Brenion! We were not expecting you until next week. Was your journey smooth?"

"Very smooth," the lord said, and with a grin he clasped the steward's proffered arm with his free one. "If I had known you were not expecting me yet, we might have lingered on our wedding journey a bit longer."

Éomer saw Faramir's brows shoot upwards.

"Did my father not tell you that we wed?" Lothíriel asked, blinking at her cousin in surprise. "He was there—it is no secret. Although Father was not  _entirely_  pleased at the haste, I suppose." Her husband chuckled at this, and smiling up at him she continued, "But waiting through two years of war to marry was difficult enough! Father agreed that there was no use in delaying any longer, and we married the day Brenion returned from the Black Gate." After a moment of stunned silence, Faramir began to chortle.

"I wish you both well, and congratulations!" the steward said. "Imrahil must have thought it would make a jolly surprise." At this the lady and her lord husband laughed. Éowyn joined in—the traitor—and Éomer forced a smile. He was all too aware of this Lothíriel, though he should not have been. Her devotion to Lord Brenion was clear as day. She was leaning slightly into him, as if to draw comfort from his very presence.

Yes, indeed; Éomer had the  _worst_  luck. The first woman he had seen in quite some time that he was attracted to, and she was already wed. As the daughter of Imrahil, Lothíriel would have been an excellent match.

"May I ask what you are the lord of?" Éowyn said curiously, once the laughing had quieted.

"Pelargir," Brenion said, holding Lothíriel's hand tightly as a light sparked in his eyes. "A glorious marble city that rests where the river Sirith meets the famed Anduin, famous for its trade and silk and—"

"And do not get him started, I beg of you!" Lothíriel interrupted with a laugh. "Brenion could speak of Pelargir for days and not tire!" Her husband gave her then a long-suffering look, though his lips were twitching.

Of  _course_  they were happy, Éomer thought uncharitably.

"Éowyn, a new dance is beginning. Shall we?" Faramir had leaned down to speak softly into Éowyn's ear, though Éomer could still hear. Lord Brenion, too, was whispering to Lothíriel, who smiled and flushed.

"I am glad to have met you, Lady Éowyn," Lothíriel said, breaking the spell. "I hope we may know each other better soon!"

"Naturally!" His sister obviously liked the lady already.

"And it was a pleasure, Éomer King." Lothíriel turned to him, and that beautiful, knowing smile was on her face again. Éomer only inclined his head, unable to speak without betraying himself. Then she was drawn away by her husband towards the dancing, and Faramir and Éowyn followed suit.

And Éomer was left alone again, feeling distinctly worse for it.


	2. Chapter 2

_1 August 3019 T.A., Edoras_

"Lord Brenion is  _dead_?"

Éomer's exclamation startled his clerk, who looked up from the report he had been reading aloud with bafflement. Éomer  _never_  interrupted reports, partly because he rarely gave them his full attention. Immediately he regretted showing such emotion, and as the clerk reaffirmed what he had said, Éomer guestered for the man to continue. But his thoughts were now elsewhere. A few phrases sunk into his mind as the clerk spoke.

_Rogue corsair attacks along the coast. Two fishing villages destroyed. Lord Brenion dispatched with his guard to expel the corsairs. Killed in combat in the Ethir Anduin…_

He could hardly believe that the jovial lord he had met was dead. Then again, it was the reality of the last several years. But the war was  _over_ ; the death should have ended…

"Lady Lothíriel assumed immediate command of Pelargir, and sent additional troops to defend the river. Prince Imrahil also sent several ships, and the corsairs fell at last. There were approximately one hundred and fifty prisoners of war taken, and Lady Lothiriel granted amnesty on the condition that the men never take up arms against Gondor again."

 _Lothíriel_  had assumed command of Pelargir. Oh, Béma!—nausea made spots appear in front of his eyes, and he blinked them away. Her husband was dead after being married only a few months! Despite Éomer's attraction to the lady, (and his annoyance at Lord Brenion for capturing her heart first), he felt an enormous amount of regret at the grief she must be feeling. It was hardly fair, after the hard won peace, for tragedy to continue to claim lives…

There was an awkward silence, and Éomer turned his attention back to his clerk, who was looking expectantly at him. He must have finished reading Aragorn's missive.

"That is all," Éomer said quickly. "I will send for you when I am ready to draft a response."

The clerk stood, folding away his papers before bowing low. Éomer, sitting behind his uncle's desk, was fiddling with a quill. It was nearly shredded already, and with a sense of embarrassment he swept it to the side and laced his fingers together.

"And send my sister in, please," he added.

Once the thud of the door closing left Éomer alone in his study, he leaned back in his chair, sighing and running a hand through his hair. He had not expected this; of all the difficulties he had faced in the last months, none felt quite like this one. This was no razed village, with families to relocate and feed. This was…personal.

He had not quite been able to forget Lothíriel's sparkling, laughing eyes. Try as he might, it was no mean feat. She had seared herself onto his soul in some strange, unknowable and unfathomable way. Over the past months Éomer had felt his surety growing that he  _knew_  her somehow, though he did not know  _why_. Guilt that he could not cease thinking of another man's wife usually followed this consideration. But she was a wife no longer.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Éowyn's shining head peeked through. "You require my presence?" she asked dryly, clearly unimpressed.

"Come in," he said, smiling. "Do you not care to be sent for,  _sweoster_?"

"No, Éomer." She swept her skirts behind her, and sat elegantly in the chair the clerk had just vacated.

"How are you?" Éomer asked after an expectant moment. He did not wish to have to tell her of Lord Brenion's death; he was perfectly aware that Éowyn and Lothíriel had been keeping an occasional correspondence over the summer. But she did not yet know that her friend was widowed; she would have told him straight away, he was sure.

"I am fair shaking with suspense. What is it?" Éowyn's slippered foot tapped lightly on the floor, and Éomer chuckled.

"What is this impatience?" he asked, lacing his fingers behind his head in a show of nonchalance. "Were you interrupted? I promise I did not intend  _that_."

"Éomer, you are hedging," Éowyn said. "Tell me."

"If you insist. Lord Brenion is dead."

She blinked, her lips parting in surprise. Éomer waited a moment more, and finally she burst forth, "No! Surely not."

"'Tis true. Elessar has sent me a report of the situation in Gondor," he nodded towards the pile of reports on the desk, "There have been attacks from rogue corsairs up the coast and along the Anduin. Lord Brenion fought to defend the villages, and was killed."

"Rogue  _corsairs_?" Éowyn asked in disbelief. "How could they be so foolish to threaten Gondor again? They fled at our armies!" Her color had risen, and her voice was growing shrill.

"The threat is gone now. Your friend Lothíriel managed it quite well, it seems."

"Of course she would! She defended Dol Amroth during the war; if  _any_ one could toss out those pirates by the scruffs of their necks, it would be her!"

Éomer had not known this small tidbit. But now was not the time to allow his interest in the lady to grow; Éowyn's eyes were filling with shining tears as she continued.

"Oh, my poor friend!" his sister cried. "How she must be grieving! Lothíriel loved Brenion since she was fifteen years old—she told me to in her last letter—I cannot imagine what pain she must be in! To lose her beloved husband so soon after marriage and to be left in charge of Pelargir by herself!"

"I am sure she will not be alone—" Éomer tried to interject.

"You are right. I am forgetting, of course." Éowyn took a deep breath, smoothing down her skirt from where she clenched it in her hands. "Brenion's younger brother will inherit. Unless Lothíriel is with child—"

"Éowyn," he cut through sharply. His ears were burning, and he wanted to hear no more of Lothíriel bearing Brenion's child. Éowyn blinked in surprise at his tone as he continued, "Do stop your speculations! It may be within the bounds of propriety for  _you_ to be aware such matters as regards to your friend, but certainly not me. I would respect the lady's privacy."

His sister's head tilted to the side as she gazed shrewdly at him, and Éomer nearly groaned aloud—she was thinking again. Her lips formed a small smile. "You should marry her," Éowyn declared at last.

"Have you decided that after about a minute of consideration?" Éomer asked dryly. "Your thoughtfulness of my future is astounding, truly."

"Ha," she said. "Come now, Éomer, it is obvious that you like her. I thought so myself, that night we met Lothíriel. I could see it in your eyes."

"She is only just widowed, Éowyn. I would not force any suit upon her."

Éowyn brightened. "But you would consider it, at a more appropriate time? I should like to see my brother wed to my dear friend!"

"But you said it yourself," Éomer said patiently. "What if she carries the heir to Pelargir? She cannot be regent in Gondor and Queen of the Riddermark. Her responsibility will be to her child."

"Oh—right." Éowyn bit her lip. "Well, I suppose you might wait. But not too long—you need to marry, Éomer."

He felt the dregs of an old argument resurfacing. His sister had been making mention of his marital status since the war ended; nothing so plain as this conversation, of course. But a comment here or there—and he was already tired of it, and he leaned back in his chair, sighing.

"I do not see why," Éomer said, rather enjoying the glower on Éowyn's face at his disagreeing with her. "I am in no present danger of sudden death, and I am sure you will have sons and daughters aplenty to supply the Mark with an heir from your own brood."

"An excellent imagery," Éowyn replied coolly. "But my children will be of Gondor, Éomer. Not the Mark. Their loyalty will be to Ithilien, their father, and the stewardship."

"I am sure something could be arranged."

"Perhaps. But surely you do not wish to live out your days devoid of partnership and comfort."

"I could adopt a pup."

"Éomer! This is not a joking matter." Her eyes glittered angrily, a sure sign of temper. Perhaps he should not have incensed her so, and immediately Éomer repented.

"I am sorry,  _sweoster_. I am only tired of hearing about my duty to marry—Elfhelm was pestering me about it a few days ago. I do not mean for you to bear the brunt of my frustration."

"I forgive you," Éowyn said, visibly relaxing. "But it does not negate that Elfhelm and I are quite right."

"If you say so."

"I promise you there is no better thing in life than reciprocated love, Éomer. Even if Lothíriel is not fated to be yours, can you not find love elsewhere?"

Éomer regarded his sister, a hundred emotions simmering in his chest as he struggled to know what to say. "I  _have_  loved before, Éowyn," he said at last. "But still I have no proof that there is nothing better in life. I can honestly say that  _that_  love has left me far worse."

Éowyn frowned, sighing, "Oh, Éomer."

"Do not spend your pity on me. Lothíriel needs you more than I."

"I will write to her at once." His sister stood, her gaze still on him, and then strode around the great desk and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. "I am sorry for pestering, Éomer. I do love you, and I want you to be happy."

"I know," he said. "Let me know when your letter is ready—I am going to write to her, too."

Éomer pretended not to see Éowyn's smirk as she glided from the room.

* * *

Whatever nonchalance he pretended for his sister's sake, Éomer could not deny that Éowyn had struck very close to his private thoughts and desires. He wondered if he could somehow make a match with Lothíriel, and how he might succeed in doing so. Certainly trying to woo her while she was in mourning for Lord Brenion was a poor idea, and likely applying to Imrahil for an arranged marriage would be unforgivably indiscreet so soon after her husband's death. So Éomer was left thinking that he had not a chance at all, and wondering whether Lothíriel would be regent for a child he did not know even existed.

He did pen a short letter for the lady to be included with Éowyn's correspondence. It mostly contained condolences for the death of her husband, but he impulsively added a postscript,  _If you are ever in need of anything, do not hesitate to ask my assistance. I would help you, if I could._

After the letter was well on its way to Gondor, Éomer berated himself for such familiarity. Did Lothíriel not have the loyalty and help of her brothers and father, and likely Elessar as well? He was the  _last_  person she would call upon if in need! And rightfully so.

Lothíriel's response to him was surprisingly gracious, considering how Éomer regretted writing to her at all. She thanked him for his concern and expressed that she was grateful to have such friends and himself and Éowyn. Éowyn, of course, received a much longer missive—he was not invited by his sister to read it nor had the humility to ask to do so it himself, but Éowyn related to him several points. Lord Brenion's younger brother, now Lord Bregon, had taken his place and Lothíriel was relieved of some (though not all) of her duties. From this, it was implied that Lothíriel was  _not_  with child, but with that assurance came a new fear: What if Lord Bregon wished to marry his brother's widow?

Éowyn's Midwinter wedding approached with no change in Éomer's feelings nor any further inspiration of what he might do. He anticipated seeing Lothíriel at the wedding—when they met again, he would gauge her feelings. Did she even want to marry again? Perhaps the love in her first marriage would prevent her from seeking another spouse.

But his worrying was in vain. Upon their arrival in Ithilien, Éowyn boundlessly happy and Éomer brooding, Faramir informed them that the guests which were supposed to come from the area of Lebennin would be unable to attend.

"There is a spotted fever sweeping through the larger cities," the steward explained. "I have not heard of any fatal cases, but it is highly contagious and the illness lasts several days. Lothíriel did not want to risk spreading the fever by attending, though she desperately wished to see us wed." This was to soothe Éowyn, who was disappointed her friend would not be there.

"She is not ill herself, I hope," Éowyn said anxiously.

"She was, but has fortunately recovered. Do not concern yourself, my love; I am sure we will see Lothíriel in the spring."

Éowyn was content with this (and too preoccupied by her impending wedding to fuss too much), and Éomer tried to reassure himself that this was for the best—when he next saw Lothíriel, she would be in a better state, and perhaps more open to the idea of a second marriage. Or would Lord Bregon secure her first?

Winter in the Riddermark brought its own barrage of problems: rare and interspersed correspondence from Gondor during the snows made it difficult for Éomer to grasp the course of events in the south. One week he received a letter from Éowyn stating that the spotted fever had cleared and she and Faramir would soon be visiting Minas Tirith, but the next letter from Elessar stated that he had been forced to enact an advisory against travel from the coastal regions, for fear of spreading the fever further.

Éomer was forced to study the letters then, utterly befuddled. But the difference was in the dates, of course; a blizzard in the Dimholt pass had caused Elessar's missive to be delayed. Éowyn's account was most recent, which meant that the threat of illness had at last passed. This boded well for Éomer to follow through with his intentions to travel to Gondor when the snow thawed; Elessar had invited him at Éowyn's wedding to visit Minas Tirith for both pleasure and business,

It appeared that the Spring Solstice would be his appointment: Elessar wrote to restate his invitation, and Éowyn sent a letter to inform him that she and Faramir hoped to see him in Minas Tirith soon. The spring buds were bursting from the last of the winter's snow, and Éomer prepared to meet, as his sister would call it, his fate.


	3. Chapter 3

_29 March 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Éomer's first sight of Lothíriel was as she strode towards Merethrond, just visible amongst other ladies and men whom he did not know. He was meandering through the citadel guesthouses and pathways while pretending not to be waiting for anything—or anyone—in particular. There was a welcome-feast that night, and he had known, (from a strategic hint left by Éowyn, who had visited him earlier that day), that Lothíriel would be present.

He could not see clearly the expression on her face for the split-second he saw her, but she did not appear to be unhappy. Then Éomer heard the echo of her laughter, and she was gone through the great oaken doors of Merethrond.

Éomer was intercepted by his sister in the gardens a short time later.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, drawing him from his reverie. She was dressed in her formal clothing for supper—was it so late already? "I was wondering where you were hiding!"

"I am not hiding," he said.

"Yes, but everyone else is in Merethrond.  _Everyone_ ," Éowyn enunciated, and there was no doubt to whom she was referring.

"It was kind of you to fetch me, then," Éomer said dryly, and she looped her arm through his.

"Yes, it was. You ought to see the calf-eyes Elfhelm is giving Lothíriel—or perhaps you should not; I would not condone your bashing his nose in."

Éomer's steps hastened without his realizing it. "Elfhelm? And Lothíriel—you have spoken to her?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Éowyn said impatiently. "She asked about you—Éomer, do not run! It is not seemly to barge into the king's house at full pace!"

But he paid her little heed. Merethrond loomed over them as they tromped up the marble stairs, the doors being held open by a pair of guards. Éomer was surprised to see that a blaze of orange light was filling the entrance hall to the sloping dips of the arched marble ceiling. The sky outside had darkened; it was later than he expected. Voices were coming from the great hall, and without pause they continued their course. Éowyn held him back slightly, but his heart continued to race. Perhaps that was why he had been hiding in the gardens—though he wished to see Lothíriel and speak to her, he did not know how to conduct himself.

The lady was standing in the feasting hall between Elfhelm, who indeed appeared to have stars in his eyes, and surprisingly—Faramir. A perfect chaperone. Éowyn was more cunning than Éomer had expected, and he was hard-pressed to hide his grin as they passed through the crowd to approach the trio. Lothíriel's dark eyes flitted curiously to him, and he tried not to notice.

"Good evening, Éomer!" Faramir was the first to speak.

"Good evening," he replied absently, giving Elfhelm a base nod, which was returned. Éomer's eyes were on Lothíriel, whose wide, beaming smile seemed to hit him in the gut. He had forgotten the way her warm eyes crinkled in the corners, and the shadows of dimples in her pink cheeks. Feeling watched, (which, of course, he was), Éomer took her hand and raised it to his lips in greeting, ignoring Elfhelm's frown beside her.

"My lady," he said. "I am glad to see you are looking well."

Her smile tightened slightly, but there was no other sign of distress in her expression. "Thank you, my lord," Lothíriel said. "And I am pleased to greet you at last—I saw you in the gardens upon my arrival."

Éomer felt his ears burn red. She had seen him? Éowyn's grip on his arm tightened, and she said loudly, "Elfhelm, I was wondering if Gerd is still making the best pies in Aldburg."

The marshal was visibly taken aback by this. "Why—yes, I think so."

"Perhaps you might fill my ears with gossip of my once-home," Éowyn said to Elfhelm, though her eyes rested briefly on Faramir. "Éomer does not oblige when I wish it. His letters can be so dry! I am often left wanting."

"An excellent idea," Faramir interjected. "I should like to hear any tales of my wife when she was younger. Shall we?"

Elfhelm, pressured on both sides and left without a choice, was forced to depart. Faramir took Éowyn's arm, and his sister sending him a final wink, they disappeared into the crowd.

"Well!" Lothíriel said after a moment, drawing Éomer's attention back to her. "I almost feel offended. No one has asked  _me_  any tales of Faramir's youth, and I assure you I know plenty." But a smile was twitching her lips, and Éomer knew she was only teasing.

"Perhaps it is for the best," he said. "We would not wish to turn Éowyn's opinion against him."

She laughed merrily. "I think it is too late for that, my lord! They appear as happy as they were last spring." Then Lothíriel sobered, and added, "I was disappointed to miss the wedding."

"We were sorry to hear of the outbreak of fever," Éomer told her. Though he already knew the answer, he then asked, "I assume that the danger has passed?"

"Oh, yes!" Lothíriel smiled up at him. "It was difficult for a time, to be sure, but so few died that I cannot help but feel grateful." The sunset, streaming in the wide western windows, was making her skin glow and carved a hollow at her throat. Éomer swallowed.

"I commend you," he said, bowing shortly. Her eyes widened in surprise, and Éomer explained, "It is no easy task to lead a city taken by illness. And I heard that you yourself were ill—I cannot imagine."

"Yes, both of those points are true," she admitted. "But Bregon was a gem in those days, and he never got ill. Lord Bregon, that is—I am sorry, I do not mean to confuse you!"

"Not at all! I have heard of this lord—" Éomer plastered on a smile, so as not to show his disquiet. "He is Brenion's younger brother, yes?"

"Indeed. He is but eighteen now. He has been a capable lord; I am proud that he has both Brenion's geniality and their father's decisiveness. I have no doubt that Pelargir will thrive under him, despite his youth." Lothíriel's voice was quieter now. Was this the effect of her dead husband's name? Or of their speaking of Bregon? Éomer shifted his weight uneasily.

"Am I to assume by your wording that you do not intend to stay in Pelargir yourself?" He tried to keep his tone casual, despite the burning curiosity.

"Oh! I have no real reason to stay, I suppose!" Lothíriel said with a short laugh. "That is, I serve with Bregon at present, but he will wed his sweetheart come summer and she will take my place."

Aha! So Bregon loved another. Éomer smiled down at her, utterly relieved. "It sounds a wonderful future," he said impulsively.

"It shall be, I am sure," she said, returning the smile and causing a strange but pleasant twisting in his gut. "And fairly better than the alternative. After Brenion's death, Bregon offered to marry  _me_."

Éomer's smile was stiff.

"He is a good lad," Lothíriel mused, her eyes unfocusing. "But he is young, and he has loved Nessiel since he was a child. I could not, in good conscience, interfere." Silence followed this, and then she shook herself, blinking up at Éomer. "I am sorry! I spoke too familiarly. I ought not to be discussing such things to you."

"It is no matter," he assured her, but he was cut off by the clanging of the dinner bell. He started and glanced around, seeing that the other guests were beginning to enter the feasting hall. Éomer had spent more time in the gardens with his thoughts than he realized. But his worry over how to speak to Lothíriel did not matter—she was perfectly affable, and he had found words to say. So he held out his arm to the lady with a smile, and she took it, her pink lips pulling upwards.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Please, call me Éomer."

Still smiling, Lothíriel said, "If you prefer."

"I do." Éomer's heart was doing a strange thumping in his chest, and lest he betray himself, he ignored it completely and asked the lady, "Where may I seat you?"

"Wherever you like! There are no assignments tonight—I spoke to the Queen earlier and she mentioned that they were striving for a more relaxed atmosphere, tonight."

Éomer could not help gloating inwardly a bit—he could sit by her himself, then, and would not be forced to surrender her to the company of another man. "Where would you like to sit, then?" he asked with a grin.

"Oh—by the door to the kitchens, of course," Lothíriel said, nodding towards the western wall before leaning nearer to him as if telling a secret, and she whispered, "That way our food will be the freshest!"

He laughed. "A wise decision!"

"I assure you it is a very selfish one!" They took their places at the easternmost of the tables, near—but not too near—several ladies he did not recognize. As servants began to serve wine to the guests, Lothíriel turned to him with a smile and said,

"It seems you have a fair understanding of our winter here in Gondor—perhaps you will oblige me and tell me of Rohan."

"Oh?" Éomer said, unable to conceal his surprise. "I did not know you had such an interest in our affairs."

"Of course! Though I am afraid my knowledge of your land is limited to lessons from my youth. My Rohirric has diminished a great deal." There was a pause as wine was poured into their goblets, and lifting hers into the air Lothíriel proclaimed, " _Gewéne_!"

Éomer laughed, toasting her in turn. " _Þú segest hálu_!"

"I am undeserving of such a compliment," Lothíriel said, dimpling. "It is only a toast!"

"On the contrary! Your accent was quite good."

She giggled. "My tutor would disagree! He declared that I was the most helpless linguist he had ever taught—and he tutored Amrothos as well!"

Éomer nearly said that Amrothos's Rohirric was liable to make one's ears bleed, but he refrained. "You must believe me, rather than your tutor," he said solemnly. "Unless he was from the Mark—"

"He was not!"

"—I would wager that I  _might_  know more regarding Rohirric."

Lothíriel's eyes sparkled, and she declared, "I must agree! Now when I see him again, I shall tell him that he dare not correct my pronunciation any longer—for I have the personal recommendation of Éomer Cyning!"

"Certainly, as having heard only one word my judgement is sure to be accurate!" Éomer laughed.

Immediately she pursed her lips to keep from laughing with him, as she said with a hint of flush, "Perhaps we ought to leave it that way. I must think of my pride!"

Platters of steaming food were being placed before them, and Éomer glanced at Lothíriel—she was hiding a smile as she was served slices of chicken, and their eyes met. He stifled a chuckle, and as the servants moved on he said, "Very clever."

"There is nothing I dislike more than cold food!"

As she had asked, their conversation over supper turned towards the affairs in Rohan; he found she was an attentive listener, sympathetic to the issues of trying to rebuild thousands of lives following the war. He told her of the razed villages, some of which would be rebuilt and some which would not. The rush to plant crops in the late spring, which had thankfully yielded more than expected during the last harvest. Later that year, the Rohirric custom of a festival honoring horses would be held in Edoras, for the war had stopped that, too.

"It is not only for buying and selling," Éomer told her as the sweet course was being brought around. He was more relaxed than he had been in months, perhaps years—he leaned on the arm of his chair, gesticulating for the woman beside him, whose interest clearly matched his own. "There are trick riders—and the Mark has those aplenty! There are contests for fighting on horseback; archery and spearing, that sort of thing. Contests, too—for the best kept horses, the ones which can haul the most weight, speed races, of course, and jumping—everything, really!"

Lothíriel was laughing, perhaps at his animation. "It sounds a treat!" she said. "I should like to see this festival myself. When did you say it was?"

Was she implying that she would travel to Edoras? Hope flared in his heart, and he answered, "It will be the first week of August. You are welcome to attend, if you wish."

"Perhaps I will," she mused, tracing the rim of her goblet with a single, slender finger. "I shan't have other obligations at the time."

Éomer guessed that she was referring to Lord Bregon's marrying. He wondered, then, what she would do. Would she remain in Pelargir? Or would she prefer to live in Dol Amroth with her father once more? He nearly asked, but it did not feel quite right.

Servants bustled in now, and tables began to be cleared and pushed towards the wall. Already the sounds of viols and flutes and harps were filling the hall, and the clamor increased as excitement for dancing mounted. Éomer stood, taking Lothíriel's hand as she rose, too. They moved nearer the wall, so as to not be in the way.

"I thought that perhaps my brothers would come and greet us," Lothíriel said, gazing out at the mass of people. "It seems they have quite forgotten me!"

"Think little of it," Éomer told her sagely. "I saw Amrothos with a young lady when I first entered."

She blinked, and after a moment she began to trill with laughter. "I wonder at that! He quite detested women in his youth. I thought he might have made it too much a habit to regularly keep their company."

"A man can change his mind."

Lothíriel's eyes were sparkling as she smiled. "'Tis true. And now I have quite a good reason to tease Amrothos terribly!"

Éomer laughed, rather hoping he could witness a measure of this teasing. He, too, was studying those around them—Imrahil's sons could not be found among the multitude of dark-haired Gondorians. Elfhelm was visible, standing stiffly beside Faramir and looking none too happy. The daring first couples had already begun to dance, and he turned to the lady beside him.

"This is quite like the night we met," he said lightly, hoping she would recall it with happiness rather than sadness. She hesitated but a moment before responding.

"A bit, yes. Though there are some marked differences."

Éomer could have kicked himself; she was no longer smiling. He had caused her to recall the joyful night with Lord Brenion…But she straightened her shoulders, her expression untroubled.

"Do you know," Lothíriel said thoughtfully, and if he was not mistaken a hint of dimples formed in her cheeks. "When Éowyn introduced us, I thought you the sternest man I had ever beheld! It seemed a pain for you even to smile."

"I was grieving for my uncle," Éomer hedged. "And the court in Minas Tirith can be uncomfortable for an outsider."

"I can understand your burden," Her hand tightened on his arm, "But I will risk a measure of rudeness—I overheard a lady that night, and she said that you were far too bad-tempered to dance! But I find you far more amiable than the gossip will allow."

He was happy to be amiable, if it pleased Lothíriel. "Too bad-tempered to dance?" Éomer said aloud. "That is hardly fair." Without pause he took her hand and spun her around, and a scant moment later they were jostled in between the other dancers. She was laughing breathlessly, her hand clenched upon his shoulder as if startled by his sudden movement. Which, of course, she would be. Éomer grinned, trying to ignore the tingling where she touched him as he said,

"I am sorry. I should have asked you first."

"Well! Amiable I will certainly name you, though your manners may be wanting!" But her eyes were warm, and she showed no aversion as his hand tightened on her waist. The hall spun around them, but it seemed far away. All Éomer saw was Lothíriel's bright smile and her charming dimples, and the curve of her neck and the feel of her body against his… Everything was so  _right_.

"I have not stepped on your foot yet," Éomer said with a grin. "Will you name me a fine dancer as well?"

"Yet, you said," Lothíriel laughed. "That disconcerts me! I will withhold my judgment until this set is over."

It had been quite a long time since he had danced last—but his mother had taught him when he was young, and he could not forget it. Lothíriel was an excellent partner, too; her height, taller than most Gondorian women, kept his neck from creaking, and she glided along with him with no appearance of impatience or gawkiness.

She was perfect.

Unfortunately, as such things are wont to do—the dance ended, and he was forced to take his hands from her. Éomer did take her hand through his arm, not wanting to relent her quite yet, and together they wandered back towards the hall. Lothíriel's cheeks were flushed from exercise and pleasure, and some of her hair had escaped its plait.

"Thank you for the dance," she said, smiling broadly. "I will allow you to be a fine dancer, I have decided."

Éomer nodded gravely at this. "You are too kind, fair maiden. I am quite diminished from your generosity."

"Oh, how absurd!" Lothíriel laughed again, and he could have listened to her forever.

To his chagrin, Erchirion found them only a moment later. Éomer wished he had found a more private place where they could continue their banter without interruption. He greeted his friend with a smile, nonetheless.

"Good evening!" Erchirion said, stooping to kiss his sister upon her cheek—Éomer withheld a growl of jealousy. What would her soft skin taste like, on his lips… "I was searching for you earlier," the prince added, interrupting Éomer's thoughts.

"I have not been hiding," Lothíriel replied tartly. "Perhaps your eyesight is not what it once was."

Éomer bit his lip to keep from laughing. Erchirion glanced over at him, brow raised, but said nothing. "Will you dance with me, sister?" he asked.

There was a pause, and she said, "Certainly, if Éomer will excuse me."

"Of course," Éomer said, though it was with enormous regret that he released her hand. "I am not such a tyrant."

Lothíriel gave him a final smile as Erchirion escorted her away, and her eyes were sparkling as ever. There was a wrench in his heart as she disappeared, and he had never felt so bereft. Béma, she was wonderful!

* * *

"It seems that you can add Éomer to your growing list of admirers."

Lothíriel arched a brow, unimpressed by her brother's tone but graciously allowing him to begin leading her in the dance. "Growing list?" she asked. "Why, Erch, I did not know you were keeping tally—I am flattered, to be sure."

But Erchirion merely smiled, not rising to her bait. "I thought he might knock my lights out for taking you away."

"I am sure Éomer would do no such thing."

"Then I wonder how well you know him at all."

"Better than you, perhaps," Lothíriel said tartly. "Éomer has been nothing but courteous—certainly he has not made a habit of lewd insinuations!"

"I marched with Éomer to the Black Gate and back," Erchirion reminded her, his voice hard. "I do know him rather well, and apart from the staid formality of the court. He has a temper, Loth, and I do not want you to be hurt."

" _Hurt_? You know Éomer 'rather well', and you sincerely you think he would hurt me?" A flare of her own temper caused her to clench her fingers on Erchirion's shoulders, and he winced.

"Well—no. You must understand...so soon after Brenion's death, none of us want you to be hurt. I know you are grieving, but—"

"Erch!" Lothíriel exclaimed. "You may cease that vein of thought this instant! I am perfectly capable of protecting myself from a temper.  _And_  more heartache, if that is what you are supposing. If I was truly in danger of that, I would not have left Pelargir."

Her brother was frowning, and his next words were a mumble, "I do not quite like Éomer's marked attentions for you. I worry for you, Loth—we all worry for you."

"And I resent you worrying," she said heatedly. "I would rather you not, brother. I suffer enough anguish for myself, I assure you! But there is little room in my grief to concern myself over whatever admirers you might accuse me of." Lothíriel sniffed, and steadied her voice. "I do like Éomer, Erch. He is kind, and he makes me laugh. When I was with him tonight, I forgot the monstrous weight on my shoulders. I am merely another woman, who did not have to defend her home from pirates afore she was full-grown, and who was widowed after a scarce three months of being a wife!"

They danced in silence for several moments, and Lothíriel regained control of herself. She regretted responding so harshly to Erchirion—she knew that he only spoke out of love for her.

"I am sorry for interfering," he said at last.

"You are forgiven," she said, and smiled. "I am sorry for my rudeness."

"I should say! I have never before heard you shout in such a way. I am sure that everyone in the hall now knows you like Éomer because he is kind and makes you laugh."

Lothíriel did giggle at that, and the tension between them disappeared as her brother laughed, too. "Erch, you mustn't suppose because I am in good spirits that I do not grieve for Brenion—because I do."

"I know," he said softly.

"But I cannot be miserable the remainder of my days. It is not in my nature."

Erchirion smiled. "I know that, too. I should not be worrying about you."

"Indeed, you should not." The dance ended, and with a grin Erchirion took her arm to lead her away.

"Shall I take you back to Éomer, then?" he asked with a glint in his eye. Despite herself, Lothíriel flushed. She nearly preferred his worrying over his teasing!

"I am sure Éomer has found other ladies to charm," she said, though she rather doubted it. She had never beheld him give marked attentions to any woman. It made her wonder why he had sought her out. But that was not a consideration for such a lively party, and Lothíriel squeezed her brother's arm. "I should like to speak to Amrothos next. I have heard he found a lady."

"Oh, great Ulmo below! And what a lady—you will have plenty to tease him about on that mark."

Lothíriel gave herself to her brothers' company for the remainder of the evening, and while Erchirion's comments lingered in the back of her mind, she paid them no heed at all.


	4. Chapter 4

_3_ _0 March 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

The following morning Éomer was delivered a sealed note in the midst of one of the many meetings overseen by Elessar. He took it from the page, hoping to appear nonchalant as several pairs of eyes followed his movements. It _had_ been a rather tedious council, and the appearance of the page was easily the most exciting thing which had happened since Imrahil upended an ink pot with his elbow. He broke the seal and quickly scanned its contents, holding the letter under the rim of the oaken table.

_Éomer,_

_I would be gratified if you might agree to take supper at my house tonight. If you have scruples regarding proprietary or your other obligations, I can assure you there are no other activities which might demand your presence—many of our shared friends will be in attendance._

_Send word back when you can—_

_Lothíriel_

His heart was thudding, and Éomer pressed his lips together to keep a silly grin from forming. Lothíriel had invited his company! To her _house_ —regardless that there would be others there, she had thought of _him_. Evidently he could be charming, when he applied himself. He would be pleased to tell Éowyn.

Immediately he tore of a piece of spare parchment from the notes he ought to have been taking, and scrawled, _Yes, thank you, I will see you tonight_ and folded it tightly. The page had lingered, apparently expecting an answer, and stepped forward with a bow to take it. Éomer tried to suppress the burgeoning excitement in his chest, but to little avail.

Lothíriel wanted to see him again!

There was a definite bound to his step when he exited the council chamber along with the crush some time later; certainly the sun was shining more brightly than normal, and the air was sweet. The usual tinge of hearth fires and general stinkiness of city living was absent; at least to Éomer. He would seek out Éowyn, he decided—surely she would not be closeted in meetings all day as he was. She would be pleased to know how he was progressing with Lothíriel, and offer advice of how he ought to go on.

He turned a corner, straight into a gaggle of Dol Amrothians. Their lively chatter seemed to swarm around him, and Éomer was forced to greet every one of them (and Amrothos twice) before they allowed him to continue onward.

“And if you see Lothíriel, tell her to get a move on! Elessar is expecting us,” the prince called back as Éomer made his way to the guesthouses.

He did not even have time to consider this before he caught sight of the lady herself, not fifteen feet away, warmly cloaked and making her way towards the citadel. She was accompanied by another lady whom he did not know, and it was clear from the bemusement on both of their faces that they had heard Amrothos’s shouting. Éomer grinned, and bowed low as they approached.

“Your brother is asking for you,” he deadpanned to Lothíriel, who laughed.

“Indeed, I heard,” she said with a dimpled smile. “Thank you for, er, passing on the message.” Her friend tittered beside her, a definite blush in her cheeks. She looked away quickly at Éomer’s glance.

“If I had known I would see you this morn, I might not have accepted to your invitation by note,” Éomer continued to Lothíriel. “I am afraid I have wasted parchment.”

Her brows arched slightly, and her smile did not fade. “Perhaps not, for now I will have the pleasure of your acceptance twice over.”

Lothíriel’s friend was tugging her forward mercilessly, and Éomer was forced to bow low in farewell. There was only an apologetic look for him in return, and the two ladies were gone.

Well! He would not complain of that meeting, short as it was.

Éomer turned his course for the Sixth Circle, as he wagered his best chance to finding Éowyn would be at the steward’s house, now that it was her own. The sun shone brightly above, not quite driving away the chill, though the excitement of his steps made him quite warm by the time he was knocking on the door of Faramir’s house.

He was ushered in by a servant and shown to a receiving room. It was unfortunately empty, and Éomer was forced to sit still for several minutes while he waited for his sister.

When Éowyn did arrive, it was in a flurry of green silk, her color high and her smile wide for her brother. “I was just seeing Faramir off,” she said breathlessly. “He came home to take luncheon with me between councils…he had to rush to the citadel—Elessar is meeting with lords of the southern lands, I think.”

“‘Tis true,” Éomer said wisely as she sat beside him on the settee. “I saw them arriving just as I left.”

“And you came to eat from our table, I suspect,” Éowyn laughed. “Or are you not hungry?”

“I cannot eat at present. Éowyn, I have received an invitation from Lothíriel to dine with her tonight!” His earnest words took his sister aback, and she appeared to calm herself, smoothing down her skirt.

“Oh, that is well!” she said. “I am glad. Faramir and I have also been invited.”

“I thought you might.”

There was a moment of silence, and Éowyn gazed at him, a smile playing at her lips. “Éomer, you are grinning like the veriest lovesick fool.”

“Oh—am I?”

“Indeed! Is your wooing proceeding so well, then?”

He clenched his hands together, trying not to appear so excitable. “I do not know, Éowyn,” he said in agony. “She shows no reluctance to be in my company—nay, she is positively friendly and teasing—but I cannot know if that is simply because she is always wonderful, or if she _likes_ me. Any more than the next man, I mean to say.”

“Why, Éomer,” Éowyn said, her eyes dancing. “I am sure that is the longest speech I have ever heard from you.” He started to protest, but she shook her head, her voice turning solemn. “Your dealings with Aema have left you bereft of confidence. I am sure Lothíriel _does_ like you— _I_ find you perfectly amiable, after all, and my judgments are always correct.”

“You are only being kind.”

“Not at all! Lothíriel would not have invited you to to her house if she did not like you, I am sure of it. She is not like most women of Minas Tirith, Éomer—she picks and chooses her company as she wishes.”

He considered this for a moment. Éowyn was speaking perfect sense, and he could not disagree with her assessment of Lothíriel. Still he rebelled to believe that he was making an impression on the lady. It was beyond his hope.

“You know that I am right,” Éowyn laughed, interrupting his thoughts. “I can see it in your eyes. You have never been able to hide your feelings, brother of mine!”

“Ha,” he said irritably. “I wonder, on occasion, why I bother confiding in you.”

“Because anyone else would have lost patience with your ill-founded cynicism years ago,” was her immediate answer. “Are you wanting luncheon yet? Or are you going to starve yourself before supper?”

“No, I will eat.” Best not to appear at Lothíriel’s house with a grumbling gut, Éomer decided.

Éowyn was more than generous with her stores, and when he at last left an hour later he wondered if he would even need supper. At least he was no longer nervous—the light-hearted company of his sister was as placating as it had always been.

When the sun was long gone and the moon had risen, Éomer, dressed in his finest, forest-green tunic and even having attempted a nice-looking plait in his hair, left the guesthouse at the citadel and made for the lower circles.

He truly tried not to worry so much—the evening would go well, or it would not. He would charm Lothíriel as best he could, and if she did not respond, he would be gracious all the same. Oh, Béma! What did a Gondorian supper party even entail? The lady’s house, a proud building not far from Imrahil’s own dwelling, was twinkling with lights as he approached, and there was the sound of laughter.

As soon as Éomer arrived, he had no more opportunity to fret. He was greeted in the entrance hall by Lothíriel herself, customary smile in place and wearing a fine dark frock. Éomer bent low over her hand.

“Welcome,” she said cheerily. “I am glad you could come.”

“I am grateful that you thought of me.” Éomer managed to return her smile, and she laughed.

“It was remiss of me to invite your sister without extending the invitation to you.” Lothíriel’s eyes were sparkling in the candlelight. “She has already arrived—she is in the front parlor.”

“Thank you.” Disappointed as the feeling of having been dismissed, Éomer trudged away to where she pointed him. She was now greeting her brother’s family who had arrived behind him—he could not blame her. If he had thought more cunningly, he might have been the last guest to arrive…

The parlor was filled with lively spirits—Eowyn laughing with Erchirion, Imrahil and Faramir in deep discussion by a window, and Amrothos sitting beside Queen Arwen and seemingly trying his very hardest to make her laugh. Her gracious smile was enough to convince Éomer that the prince was fighting a losing battle.

He himself could not help but feel the peace and happiness of Lothíriel’s house: she was a gracious hostess, and the company so willing to be pleasant and charming. Éomer was sure had had never enjoyed a supper more. The teasing between the lady and Amrothos, the dry humor of Imrahil and even Aragorn’s intermittent quips kept things lively. The meal itself, an exemplar of Gondorian cuisine, was delicious; baked fish with lemon, warm flatbreads, fluffy cooked grains with herbs and a wine crisp and deceptively strong. Éomer did not need the wine, however, as he drunk in the sight of his Lothíriel at the head of the table, smiling and laughing and looking beautiful as ever, but all the more wonderful for the adept manner in which she was managing the supper, and her clear enjoyment of it.

Éomer must have been staring, for Éowyn kicked him from her place next to him. Startled, he glanced at his sister to hear her hiss,

_“Give your attentions to others; you look like a dolt!”_

He flushed red, and immediately engaged in conversation Elphir’s wife beside him.

After the meal was finished, with the finale of a spectacular towering white cake filled with cream and fresh fruits, and with many groans, they retired to the front parlor once more. Éomer tried to snatch a place next to Lothíriel where she sat on a settee, but Erchirion was there first. The prince offered Éomer a raised brow as if to say, _Why, were you wishing to speak to my sister? Better luck next time!_

His annoyance was soon lost; it was impossible to be unhappy in a chamber so full of light and life. Amrothos unearthed a lyre from a trunk, and quickly a few more instruments were given to others to play. The music and singing seemed to reach every corner of shadow and drive it away. Lothíriel, bearing her own harp, commanded with a laugh that no sorrowful ballad be played, and no one gainsayed her. Having little skill with any sort of instrument, Éomer was left listening appreciatively, trying not to let his eyes linger on the lady too long. She had a clear voice which melded well with her brothers’. The additions of Aragorn and Arwen, both highly skilled themselves, and Faramir, who possessed a surprisingly deep tone, made for real artistry. Éomer thought he had never heard better music anywhere—he glanced at Éowyn, who was determinedly not singing though she laughed along merrily, and held back a smile.

Imrahil, who sat beside him, was humming along but no more. His eyes shone with pride when he turned to Éomer to murmur quietly, “Perhaps you and Éowyn might favor us with a song of Rohan.”

“I would not wish to disappoint!,” Éomer said with a chuckle, “Éowyn detests singing, and she has every reason to! You may think I am uncharitable, but really, I would not wish all the tomcats in the city to be scratching at the door.”

“Then you might sing for us. I have heard you have a fine voice.”

“Fine enough for battle, perhaps,” he said. “But not for a gathering such as this. I am content to listen, unless my hostess wishes otherwise.” It was true that the cheery chamber needed no darkening by way of a song of bloodshed, and furthermore Lothíriel had not wished it. And he knew few other lays.

Imrahil’s response was not immediate, and Éomer wondered if he had made a blunder. But the prince’s keen gaze showed no offense, and he said, “Perhaps another time.” Éomer inclined his head.

Elphir and his wife were the first to depart, and Aragorn and Arwen soon after. The music continued, nonetheless, though it had lost some quality. This did not stop Amrothos, however, from reciting a poem of a bullfrog with hiccups, his own voice croaky from overuse, and bringing the chamber to tears from laughter. Amrothos clearly enjoyed amusing others, for he was grinning broadly.

Éowyn’s eyes were bright, and she turned to her brother. “Oh, Éomer, do you remember the song Mama used to sing to us? When Father was away—and—”

“Yes, I do,” he said, only a little reluctantly. Would she be the next to suggest he sing?

“We ought to sing it! I am tiring of these Sindarin words.”

Oh, Béma. Éomer felt his ears turn red as everyone gazed at him expectantly. He could not help looking at Lothíriel, who was smiling gently.

“I should like to hear a Rohirric song. If you do not mind, Éomer.” The way her voice said his name made Éomer want to agree to anything, and attempting to hide this, he nodded curtly.

“I will play for you!” Éowyn had picked up a lyre, strumming the strings in experimentation. Feeling as though he was trodding through mud, Éomer stood and took a place next to where his sister sat. He cleared his throat awkwardly. Béma, it was too unfair of Lothíriel to have asked him—he could not resist her at all! Recalling his mother’s face and voice to mind wrenched his heart. He had not sung this particular song since his youth, when his uncle had been alive and merry and Aema had smiled for him…

_Dún be þæt éa,_

_Hwær ic gebidden_

_Neoðan þæm séolfren móna_

_Þær þú findest méc_

_Mín héorte wracnaþm,_

_Mín ferhþ þeow_

_O mín éagan nmagau seon þæm dægrædléoma_

_Swá lif losaþ butan lufu,_

_Ndoð þú ácordest?_

_Ic áwilne þú æfterfolgest_

_Méc to mín séftnesse_

_Álæne méc þin hand,_

_Ic wille hafene þú fram þin cnéo_

_Mín lufu fæstgangol,_

_Þin lufu soþ_

_Ond ic cunnan þæm séolfren móna wille áblác for þú_

_O ic cunnan þæm séolfren móna wille áblác for þú…_

Éowyn played a few more notes when he was finished. The chamber had lapsed into silence as he sang, the liveliness all but gone, and Éomer regretted it. Had their performance been so poor?

Lothíriel spoke first, breaking the silence with her beautiful smile, “I need to refresh my Rohirric. That was lovely, Éowyn, Éomer. Thank you.” Her eyes shone with pleasure, and for that alone, Éomer’s discomfort vanished.

The party was clearly ending; Imrahil stood with a yawn and declared the need to seek his bed. Amrothos and Erchirion dutifully left with their father after farewells all around. Faramir remained only to assist Lothíriel in carefully packing away the instruments in thick cloths. Éomer sat on the now-empty settee, wondering how long he could stay without being rude. The moon, visible through the opened windows was shining brightly, and he estimated that it was nearing midnight.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Éowyn was saying, and she kissed Lothíriel’s cheek. The lady was flushed, but there was a definite frown pulling at her lips.

“Do not feel the need to rush away!” she said, with an almost pleading tone in her voice.

“We would be happy to, but I am reviewing the lists with Elessar in the morning,” Faramir said with a laugh, kissing his cousin. “I would avoid a scolding, where I can!”

“Elessar would hardly _scold_ you!” Éowyn protested, looping her arm through her husband’s.

“I cannot risk it!” he declared, and with laughter they departed the room.

Lothíriel’s frown deepened, and there was a crease in her brow as she watched them leave. Éomer did not like to see this at all.

“You mustn’t blame my sister for hastening away,” he said lazily. She glanced towards him, the hint of a smile returning to her lips.

“Oh?”

“Éowyn is a bear when she does not sleep. It is in Faramir’s best interest to see that she gets her rest.”

Lothíriel laughed, and Éomer could have sighed in relief to see a measure of her spirits restored. She sunk onto the settee next to him, wringing her skirt in her hands. There was silence for a moment before she spoke again, her eyes averted. “I daresay you think me quite foolish to want to keep my guests late.”

“It depends on the reason.”

“It—I—well…” Lothíriel’s eyes flitted upwards to him. Then she sighed. “The company of my friends and family help me to—to forget that I am grieving. But when they leave, I am lonely all over again.”

Éomer’s heart wrenched to see, for the first time since he had known her, a shadow of grief and unhappiness in her eyes. However well she hid it, he knew she mourned for Lord Brenion. But instead of envy for the man’s place in her thoughts, Éomer only felt weary. He picked up one of her hands.

“I do not think you foolish,” he said softly.

“But I am,” Lothíriel smiled wryly. “And terribly selfish as well.”

“For wishing your burden to be eased? I think not. ‘Tis a purely human reaction, if I am any judge.”

Her chin lifted as she gazed at him, and the sadness in her eyes was carefully shut away. Instead, a curiosity burned, as if she were trying to understand him. “And what burdens do you bear, Éomer of Rohan, that you speak with such wisdom?” she asked after a moment.

“None that I would trouble you with,” Éomer said. Without realizing it, his thumb had begun to stroke her knuckles, though she appeared not to notice it either.

“Oh, trouble me all you wish!” Lothíriel said, and then she laughed. “Remind me that there are other troubles in the world than mine, that I might be drawn from my own misery!”

“There is enough trouble in the world. Why must we speak of it at all?” Despite his words, however, Éomer’s mind had fastened upon Aema—the song he had sung caused him to think of her. He had forgotten her, in the last months, and of the heartache she had caused. Stunned at this realization, Éomer’s hand went limp.

“What is it?” she said, the shadow of dimples in her cheeks. “You are thinking of something. I am doubly curious now!”

Éomer had not expected to ever forget Aema…yet as he saw Lothíriel smiling up at him, he could not recall Aema’s features at all. “I—” he began hoarsely, and then cleared his throat. “I was only remembering—I had forgotten. My own troubles…I did not expect—”

Her brows raised at this stuttering speech.

“I am making very little sense,” he said. “I apologize. If you are truly wishing to know…”

“Certainly! I am adept at listening.”

“I loved a woman once, many years ago,” Éomer said, and as soon as he said it, he knew he loved Aema no longer. His heart suddenly felt light, deprived of his selfish burden as he continued, “We were to wed, but Aema did not wish to marry a soldier. She did not want to be widowed, she told me.”

Lothíriel’s expression arrested upon her face, her smile stilted.

“I cannot fault her reasoning, necessarily,” he said fairly. “Though I was bitter for a long time. I blamed her for my unhappiness. And she wed a coppersmith not a year later!” The lady was blinking in astonishment, and he hastened to add, “Do not think ill of her! I do not; not anymore.” Éomer was smiling at Lothíriel, whose cheeks flushed with emotion.

“Wedding a soldier is not every cause of widowhood,” she said, and her voice was strong. “Even when there is no war…death is hardly predictable.”

Oh, Béma! He could have kicked himself. How could he have spoken to Lothíriel of this? He had said that Aema did not wish to be widowed, and here was a widow in front of him! There was no comparison, really. Lothíriel’s grey eyes blazed with emotion.

“Well!” she said. “I can only hope that Aema is content, and that you are as well.”

“I am quite well, I assure you,” Éomer said. “I will not let the memory of her spoil my chance for happiness in the future.” Could there be happiness again? Could he love another? The answer was like a shaft of light to his mind—of course! Even in his infatuation with Lothíriel there had been a dark shadow of Aema’s memory, but now it faded until he was left with nothing but shining hope. After so many years of despair!

But his lady still frowned. “You are right—I cannot fault her. Farewelling one’s husband without knowing that one will ever see him again…it is no mere sadness. It is devastation.”

Éomer clasped her hand in both of his, bring it to his lips. “I did not speak of this to grieve you,” he said softly. “Lothíriel…”

She started, and met his gaze as if she had forgotten he was there. Her lips parted, and after a heart-shattering moment a wonderful smile grew on her face. “I am sorry!” Lothíriel said. “I did not intend to selfishly compare your troubles to mine. What a hostess I am!” she added, as if to chide herself. “I hardly speak to you all night, and then I complain of my own loneliness and think ill of your former lover!”

Éomer chuckled. “You are a wonderful hostess, Lothíriel. I am sure I have never had a better evening.”

“You are too kind.”

“Nay, I am honest.”

“Not honest enough to remind a woman when she is being too familiar,” Lothiriel laughed. “Next time, you must see that I cease speaking!”

“I will not! It makes me happy to hear you speak.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and Éomer smiled to see her eyes full of warmth as they danced. “If anyone had heard our conversation, would they believe us to be fully-grown?” she asked. “Speaking mournfully of our past loves as any sighing pair of youths! I am diminished, to be sure.”

“My situation is lamentable, to be sure,” Éomer chortled. “But you have real cause to mourn.”

“And more cause to be grateful! Still the sun shines, and still I love. I must not forget how fortunate I am.”

There was a scratching the door, and startled, Éomer turned to see a servant bearing a tray of tea. It was set upon the table in front of them. Lothiriel had hastily withdrawn her hand from his when the servant entered, and immediately busied herself pouring tea. He regretted the interruption; they had been speaking so playfully and even perhaps a little intimately…

But that spell between them was broken. They drank their tea while speaking only of general topics, and once they were finished Éomer was disappointed to see the shadows underneath Lothíriel’s eyes, despite her unfading smile.

“I will go,” he said. “In the hope that I have eased your loneliness, this night at least.”

Her voice was soft, and her dimples so gloriously beautiful as she spoke. “You certainly have, Éomer.”

He was whistling as he walked home that night.


	5. Chapter 5

_31 March 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Éomer smiled when he woke the following morning, he smiled as he dressed and he smiled as he walked on winged feet to the Citadel for another dull day of meetings. He hummed a bit to himself, even, his song of the night before which was lingering in his mind.

_Ich áwilne þú æfterfolgest  
_ _Méc to mín séftnesse  
_ _Álæne méc þin hand,  
_ _Ich wille hafene þú fram þin cnéo  
_ _Mín lufu fæstgangol,_ _Þin lufu soþ…_

His overwhelming happiness must have been obvious, for he received many odd glances, the most notable being from Imrahil. Éomer had been too unhappy these last years. And he had every intention of going on differently in the future.

But councils did not satisfy him. He could only think of Lothíriel,  _not_  the excavations of the Dimholt Pass (which were proceeding well enough that he did not feel guilty allowing his mind to wander). Éomer wanted to see her again, as soon as possible. Would she wish to see him? He was so full of hope he could hardly comprehend otherwise…

Éomer took leave of Elessar that afternoon by excuse of needing to read through various reports. The reports happened to be sitting in his guest chambers, but when Éomer departed the Citadel, he turned on determinedly away from the guesthouse and instead walked east towards Sixth Circle and his lady's house. Reports could wait, his heart could not.

A servant allowed him into the entrance hall upon his knocking, and said, "I will ask my lady if she is receiving."

"Thank you."

His stomach twisting in knots, Éomer crossed his arms and paused in front of an elaborate tapestry which adorned the eastern wall of the vestibule. The needlework was astounding—he wondered briefly if Lothíriel had perhaps made it herself, but the edges were frayed. So the tapestry was old; likely an heirloom. Was it hers, or did it belong to Pelargir? There was much he did not know of her…

"Come this way, my lord." The servant had returned, and bowed low to him. "Lady Lothíriel is in south parlor."

Éomer followed the servant through the airy corridors, trying not to notice that his knees were half-numb. What was this nervousness? An oaken door was propped open at the end of the walkway, and the servant retreating, he pushed it open.

Lothíriel sat at a small desk, which faced an open window to the gardens. Still early spring, there were no blooms quite yet, but Éomer much preferred the beauty of the lady—she wore a woollen blue frock with a shawl of white, and her hair was plaited and slung over her breast. She glanced over at him, her lips relaxing into a smile as she set her quill on the desk. She had been writing.

"Éomer!" she said. "Good afternoon. I was not expecting you."

"I apologize," he said at once. "I did not mean to intrude."

"Not at all! Come in." Lothíriel picked up the parchment and began to fold it, and as he strode closer, she sealed it with a measure of hot wax. "I have been writing a report for Bregon," she explained, pressing a seal into the wax. "I will not deny that it is tedious—but I am happy to be finished at last! You have arrived just in time."

"That is fortunate," Éomer said. "I was going to ask if you wished to take a walk through the Queen's gardens."

Lothíriel was clearly pleased at this invitation, and she dimpled up at him. "How lovely! Fresh air will be just the thing after that letter. How did you know?"

"A lucky guess," he laughed. "Fate is in my favor, it seems."

"Let me fetch my cloak."

Fate was certainly in his favor, Éomer mused as he escorted the lady, her hand on his arm, back up the winding streets towards the citadel. The breeze was lifting the lady's stray hair from her shoulders, but her eyes were bright and her steps bounding.

"It feels almost warm," she said with a contented sigh. "The first real day of spring!"

"Do you not care for winter?" Éomer asked, quirking a brow down at her as Lothíriel laughed.

"I would not be so careless as to openly dislike anything which I cannot control! I enjoy winter generally, but this one seemed to last forever." Her voice quieted somewhat as she finished, though she still smiled. He clasped her hand tightly, and said,

"I am sorry."

"Do not be! I am sure that in retribution for my unabashed relief, summer will now present as many difficulties so that I can hardly bear the wait until next winter."

"Perhaps it is best to keep one's opinions regarding the weather to oneself, then."

Laughing, they stepped up the marble steps and passed through the low stone archway, the Queen's gardens spreading in front of them. Just as at Lothíriel's house, the flowers were not quite in bloom. A great deal of the vegetation clung to the dreary, damp brown of winter, though some green peeked through.

"It will be prettier next month, I am guessing," Éomer said. "I should have thought before I brought you here."

"It is no matter," Lothíriel's voice was gentle, "I appreciate most your companionship and the air."

His heart swelled as he gazed down at her, her grey eyes warm in the sunlight. Béma, wasn't she lovely! Every bit of her—her shining dark hair, the curve of her creamy neck and the stroke of her hand as she tightened her hold on his arm. Éomer resisted reaching up a hand to stroke her rosy cheek, and cleared his throat as the spell was broken, and they pressed onward.

There was silence now as they wandered the pathway, broken only by the occasional pointing out of a fresh shoot or a closed flower on the verge of blooming. The gardens were deserted; lacking the loveliness of full bloom and the busy meetings of the week made for complete solitude. A niggling guilt reminded Éomer of the reports, but he brushed it away.

"Are there gardens in Pelargir?" he asked to make conversation.

"Indeed," Lothíriel smiled up at him, and his heart thumped again. "We are fortunate to be south enough to grow Dol Amrothian flowers as well. Walking in such gardens can sometimes cause headaches from the overwhelmingly strong scents!—especially in the hotter months. They ought to be just blooming now; spring arrives sooner there." Was her voice wistful, or was Éomer imagining it? It would not do to make her homesick for Pelargir!

"My great-aunt planted hundreds of roses in Meduseld's gardens," Éomer told her. "They were her favorites—she gathered dozens of varieties from Lossonarch and other regions in Gondor. But I do not know if she foresaw them choking out every other flower and herb!"

Lothíriel laughed. "Roses are often like that! They are my favorite, too—I admire something so lovely that can grow in such harsh conditions."

A budding tree loomed before them; the branches craggly but bearing pink and green tips. Under it was a stone bench—one of many in the extensive gardens, and they sat upon it.

Éomer found that his throat was dry. Lothíriel appeared perfectly at ease, her face turned towards the sun and breathing in deeply. But he could not feel the same. His stomach was rolling with nerves, and his hands were clammy. He tried to rub them surreptitiously on his trousers, hoping she would not notice.

"Do you miss Pelargir?" he asked abruptly.

She was quiet for a moment before turning to face him. "Yes, and no. It was my home for several months, but I feel as though I no longer belong." Lothíriel was fiddling with the sleeve of her cloak. "I have considered making Minas Tirith my home, or returning to Dol Amroth, but neither seems quite the thing. It would be going backwards."

"I see," Éomer said slowly. There was a lump in his throat, and he swallowed. "If—if you need somewhere new—I—I could—that is…there is someplace I know of…"

Her brows lifted, and there was a hint of a smile. "Do tell!"

"You could…come to Edoras."

"Edoras!" Lothíriel exclaimed, laughing a little. "For more than the horse festival, do you mean? I have not considered it—perhaps to my own detriment. What might I do in Edoras?"

"You could—er…well, the Riddermark needs a queen."

She stopped mid-laugh, blinking up at him in surprise.

"You could marry me," Éomer finished lamely. Sweat was beading along his neck, and he clasped his damp palms together awkwardly.

"Well," Lothíriel said after a moment. Her brows creased in thought as she studied his face, though her eyes betrayed nothing. "Well! I hardly know what to say."

"It was only an idea; I was not thinking—do not feel obliged—"

"I do not feel obliged," she interrupted firmly. "Éomer, you must give me a moment to consider this."

Oh, Béma. Was it worse knowing that she was  _considering_  agreeing? An outright rejection might have been less agonizing! Éomer had nothing to say. And he may not have been able to speak, anyway. Lothirel bit her lip, and asked,

"Why?"

Why? She wanted to know  _why_ —well, of course she did! Éomer's mind went strangely blank, and all the reasons a match may have been ideal seemed to be just out of reach. He said in a croak, "Well, I need a queen, and you said yourself—you do not wish to live in Pelargir, Dol Amroth or Minas Tirith. I know you will fill the position wonderfully, and frankly the Riddermark needs someone more experienced than myself."

"I see," Lothíriel said slowly after a moment. "I understand those reasons."

But they were not enough. Éomer searched around for more. "Last evening you mentioned that you were lonely. I—so am I."

There was a frown pulling her lips downwards now, and she placed a gentle hand on his clammy one, nearly making him jump. "Éomer, you are very kind—but you should not feel that  _my_ loneliness is cause enough to bind with me for the remainder of our lives without affection. That will bring far  _more_ loneliness, I assure you."

"I do not!" he said quickly.

"Do you believe that we will suit?" Her question was brisk, plainly spoken.

"Yes, I am sure of it," Éomer said without hesitation. Without revealing too much of himself, he ventured, "I like you, Lothíriel. I enjoy your company, and you are wise in ways that I am not. I—I believe that we could be very happy together."

Her eyes flickered across his face, and after a frightening moment, she said quietly, "I also believe that we could be happy together."

His heart was thudding out of his chest—could it be—?

"I accept," Lothíriel said, a smile blooming across her face. "I would be honored to be your wife."

Sweet relief! Éomer loosed a breath he had not realized he had been holding and clasped both of her hands in his. "I am the luckiest man alive, to be sure," he said gallantly.

"Well, I am not quite convinced of that!" But she was laughing. Éomer released her for a moment to tug the ring bearing the sigil of his rank from his finger, and he pressed it into her hand. Lothíriel glanced at it in surprise.

"So that you remember me," he said impulsively.

"I can hardly forget now!" She tilted her head to the side—just as Éowyn did when she was thinking. A hard look had come in her lovely eyes, and before Éomer could say anything, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

Utterly astounded, Éomer found that he could not move an inch. He stared, and a moment later she retreated with rosy cheeks. "I am sorry," Lothíriel said quickly.

"No—no, do not be!" He grasped her hands tighter—he wished she had not pulled back. He might have gotten his wits back and made a better impression. As she did not appear to intend to kiss him again, Éomer could have kicked himself. Next time would do better, he would make certain of that…

They stood a short time later and made their way back towards the garden entrance. Lothíriel spoke, breaking the contemplative silence between them.

"We should speak to my father as soon as we can. Is there anywhere else you need to be, or can we see him now?"

Again, Éomer remembered his reports, and again, he suppressed a feeling of guilt. There would be time that evening to read them. "Certainly," he said. "I believe Imrahil is still at the Citadel. Oh! We are already here." The last quip he delivered with a cheeky smile, intended to make Lothíriel laugh, and thoroughly succeeding.

"I begin to wonder if you planned this," she teased, her eyes sparkling.

Éomer pretended indignity. "On my honor, I did not! If my sister rues a single trait of mine, it is my impulsiveness. I swear I was not thinking, not one whit."

Lothíriel's brows rose at this. "Not a whit?" she repeated.

"Oh, er—" He realized his blunder, and hastened to explain. "I was thinking of  _us_ , to be sure, but not the details that inevitably come afterwards."

"I see." There was withhold laughter about her lips, and Éomer let loose a breath of relief.

After the warmth and light of the gardens, the Citadel was cool and dark. They were directed to a spare room, sparsely furnished, and there they waited together in quiet for Imrahil to arrive. Éomer fidgeted; this sort of nervousness was foreign to him, and after a moment Lothíriel took his hand, favoring him with a smile.

"You mustn't worry," she admonished, and his nerves quieted.

Imrahil entered, a sheaf of parchment in front of his nose and absently sitting in a chair facing them. A servant closed the door, and there was even more silence.

"Father," Lothíriel said.

"Hmm? Yes, I am sorry," Imrahil folded the parchment and tucked it into his vest, smiling at his daughter though his eyes were on Éomer. The prince reminded Éomer of his uncle, and under the keen grey eyes felt that he had done something he oughtn't have. "Well?" Imrahil prompted. "The pair of you are looking so solemn and repressively happy, I suspect that you wish to tell me that you are to be married."

Éomer, stunned, could not reply. But Lothíriel laughed, evidently not at all surprised by her father's words. "Perhaps we should not have bothered you, if your foresight had already told you so," she teased.

"It was merely a guess," Imrahil said with a smile. "Though I have seen much evidence behind it." What that evidence was, however, was not to be revealed, and Éomer wondered how much Imrahil knew of his sentiments. "But on to business," the prince said briskly. "Have you decided where you will wed?"

Éomer glanced at Lothíriel. "I had assumed in Edoras," she said.

"I would not have us marry in Edoras if you do not wish it," Éomer interjected quickly.

"Oh, I do not mind—"

But Imrahil held up a hand, stalling his daughter's response. "Lothíriel, I know very well how little value you place in formal weddings," he said dryly. "But your present status—and your future status—demand differently."

There was color in her cheeks. Sensing argument, Imrahil turned his attention to Éomer.

"There are many superstitions regarding weddings in Gondor," he said, as if this was no more than a casual conversation. "For those reasons, the bride nearly always marries in her own home."

"I do not mind—" Éomer began, repeating Lothíriel's earlier objection.

"I haven't a true home, Father," she interrupted. "Unless you wish me to marry in Dol Amroth once more, then you are condemning Éomer to a terribly long journey."

Wisely, Éomer decided to remain silent. Imrahil was regarding his daughter shrewdly. "And what of a compromise?" he suggested. "Marry here, in Minas Tirith. It is not so far from Edoras as Dol Amroth, and you may have many guests to bring you luck."

"We hardly need luck," Lothíriel said, and there was a hint of annoyance in her voice. "Éomer and I will suit whether we have one guest or one thousand."

 _Hear, hear_ , Éomer thought to himself.

"Humor your father, then," Imrahil said with a wry smile. "Your first wedding was hardly fit for a princess, allow this one to be fit for a queen."

"I might suggest another compromise," Éomer said, gazing at Lothíriel and seeing the frown pulling at her lips. "We can marry here—a small wedding, if you wish. I confess I feel the same as you on that account!" She smiled at that, and he continued, "After we journey to Edoras, you can be coronated with a proper celebration. It will be a large one, I am afraid, whether we wish it or not. Your family and anyone you wish would be welcome to attend." Though privately he wondered at the wisdom of inviting her father and brothers on their wedding journey.

Her smile was restored, and she flushed a little before turning to Imrahil. "I prefer Éomer's idea," she said. "Father, I truly do dislike weddings. I will do my duty as I must, but I shan't be queen until we are in Edoras."

Imrahil hesitated for a moment, and finally nodded. "It seems a fair compromise. We shall arrange things here, and Éomer, you will see to the coronation? I should very much like to attend."

"Of course," he said.

"And when will this wedding be?"

More silence. Lothíriel's eyes flitted to Éomer, but he could not interpret her thoughts. "I see no purpose in waiting," she said slowly. "Summer is approaching, and it will be so lovely for a wedding."

"There are customs—" Imrahil began.

"And I am sure Éomer's customs are different," Lothíriel said, turning towards him. "Éomer?"

He could not help feeling battered on both sides by father and daughter. It was utterly unfair, and he answered quickly, "Er—in Rohan, a betrothal can last as long or short as desired. I, for one, desire a short one. I need Lothíriel." She beamed at him for this, and he felt his heart thump.

Imrahil sighed for a moment, looking between the two of them. "Very well," he said. "I will not gainsay any longer. Marry this very summer, if you are wishing."

This very summer! Éomer was startled into momentary silence. Only three short months until they would wed? He could scarce believe it, and was hardly paying attention when Imrahil stood. Lothíriel jumped up quickly, tugging Éomer to his feet.

Imrahil's voice was full of longing as he gazed at his daughter. "Lothíriel, you  _will_  always have a home with me, I hope you know. Do not feel that you must put any duty above your happiness."

"I do not," she said, and there was a flash of determined fire in her eyes.

"Then I will troth you now—no better time, I suppose. We may announce it tonight."

Now?  _Now_? Éomer's mind went strangely blank.

"Any elder in the family may troth a couple at any time," Imrahil explained, placing his hand over his daughter's, who still held Éomer's. "Public betrothals are uncommon, though not unheard of. It is the wedding which has more strictures."

Éomer glanced down at Lothíriel. Her eyes were shining brightly as she met his, and dimples formed in her rosy cheeks as she smiled up at him. He barely heard what Imrahil was saying in Sindarin. His only thought was that Lothíriel was  _his_ , and he was hers, and they would marry…

"I leave my blessing with you," Imrahil finished, and he removed his hand, instead kissing his daughter on both her cheeks. Then he turned to Éomer, and clasped his arm. "I could not wish a finer man for my daughter," he said gruffly. "You are more fortunate than you realize."

"I am sure of it," Éomer managed to say. "I thank you for your blessing."

Imrahil  _hmph_ ed, and departed the room without another word.

"Oh, dear," Lothíriel said, and Éomer saw that she was frowning, staring after her father. "I did not mean to sadden him… Were we too hasty, do you think?"

Impulsively, thinking there was no better way to comfort his betrothed—his  _betrothed_ —Éomer pulled her into an embrace. She did not resist, and after a moment she rested her head on his chest with a sigh. Oh, Béma—she was wonderful to hold.

"I would think," he murmured into her hair. "That your father does not wish you to face the same grief again. He must worry for you."

Lothíriel's face tilted upwards. "I am not intending for you to die," she said with a hint of smile.

"Ever?" he asked with a quirk to his brows, and she laughed.

"Eventually I will allow it, but now, you must remain alive. I do not wish to be twice-widowed."

The temptation to tease his lady overwhelmed his sense, and Éomer said without thinking, "Then you must have agreed to marry me for my unmatched prowess in battle."

Lothíriel's eyes were dancing, and her arms tightened around his back even as he berated himself his insensitivity. Would she think he meant to offend Brenion? He certainly hoped not, for it was not his intention! But she said, "I would not be foolish as to admit it," and he sighed in relief.

"Wench," he muttered, and kissed her forehead. Éomer wished to claim her lips, truly he did, but Imrahil had left the door to the chamber open. A servant was shuffling past, and Lothíriel withdrew from his arms with another sigh.

"I told Queen Arwen I would attend her this afternoon," she said, and if he was not mistaken, her grey eyes were filled with regret. "And now I have much to tell her."

"Do not worry for me!" Éomer said lightly, picking up her hands and kissing each in turn. "We will see each other tonight."

"Tonight," Lothíriel echoed. "And more before you depart for Rohan."

As he was to leave in two days' time, he had been suppressing the reminder. "Of course," he assured her. "As often as I am free from councils."

Her smile was broad, full of the lively good-nature he had come to appreciate so much. "I have to admit, this was not how I expected my day to unfold," she said.

"Nor I!" Éomer laughed. "But I am grateful for it, all the same. Now, do not let me delay you!"

Lothíriel's smile faded a little, but he released her anyway and she turned to leave. At the door, she glanced back at him. There was a wealth of meaning in her eyes which he could not interpret. Éomer's heart thudded nonetheless, and with a final, shy smile, her blue skirt disappeared 'round the corner and she was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

_April 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

There were a great many benefits to being betrothed to Lothíriel—the popularity and constant well-wishers were _not_ one of them. His sister's smugness he could tolerate, for it was spurned by Éowyn's love for him and relief that he had found a mate. She had told him so plainly when he had announced privately to her that he was to wed Lothíriel.

"I suppose I may stop worrying about you now," Éowyn had said, her eyes sparkling. "If Lothíriel is going to take you on—"

Éomer had forced a laugh, but given no other response.

His lady's brothers' teasing, however, he barely tolerated—and by remembering that they were to be his brothers, too. He comforted himself by the thought that they would be staying in Gondor.

No, the benefit Éomer appreciated most was the constant company of his future bride. Lothíriel was all that was gracious to their well-wishers, and all that was gentle affection to him. Her manners were easy and amiable at their betrothal feast, just as they always were. If he had doubted it before (which he had not), Éomer knew she would make a wonderful Queen of Rohan. He wondered if his attraction to her was _because_ of her obvious skills, or if he was just enormously lucky. But those sorts of thoughts only sent him in confused circles.

Though the day following their betrothal was filled with a great deal of contracts to sign and agreements to be made, Éomer was able to escape in the evening, feeling harassed and teased to distraction, and sure that the only antidote was Lothíriel's company. She had been present for much of their morning business, but had been forced to leave during the afternoon for her own—or Lord Bregon's own. Still she acted for him, until his marriage that summer.

He was laden with books of reports and treaties as he trudged in the twilight to Lothíriel's house, sure that she would be there. Lights flickered from the windows, dim in the twilight. A servant bowed low to admit him, and Éomer was directed to the lady's private solar, located at the rear of the house.

She was sitting at her desk, which did not surprise him, though she stood upon his entrance. "Good evening!" Lothíriel said brightly, smiling at him. "I was hoping to see you again before…before you left."

"Of course," Éomer said, and the weight of his stresses from earlier in the day seemed to fade at the sight of her lovely face. Even his departure, set for early the following morning, was no more than a distant thought, and he grinned in return. "I could not leave without seeing you again, either."

Her cheeks tinged with pink. "Come sit! I see you have brought your work."

"I had no choice," he confessed, obeying her by taking a seat in a chair not far from her desk. "Your father insisted I read these contracts myself before tomorrow."

"He can be persistent," Lothíriel said with a laugh, and she glided towards a sideboard nearby, laden with the remains of a hasty supper. "I am sorry that you must suffer at my father's will. I am similarly imprisoned by my work tonight—I received a message from Bregon this morning, and he requires an immediate response."

By the sight of several blotchy parchments folded on her desk, a bright red seal broken, Éomer suspected Bregon's message was less a letter and more a novel. Lothíriel returned, bearing two goblets of wine, one of which he gratefully accepted.

"It is not how I had hoped our final evening would proceed," he said, toasting her as she sat once more with a laugh.

"Nor I! Would that Bregon's messenger was not waiting in my kitchens for a response!"

"Would that your father had more sympathy upon a newly-betrothed man."

"Perhaps he is testing you!"

"A test!" Éomer exclaimed, rising at the injustice.

"He only wishes to know if you are worth your mettle," Lothíriel said, a teasing glint in her eyes as she regarded him. "But in any case—I am grateful for your company. Our evening shan't be as dull as I feared."

"I am very thankful for that," he said. There was an unfamiliar and almost uncomfortable insinuation he felt as he said it, and hastily Éomer took a sip of wine. "What is troubling young Bregon, then?"

Lothíriel gave a sigh, shaking her head as she set her goblet on the desk, pushing several books aside to make room. "The father of Bregon's betrothed—Curuben, has been behaving rather badly. He is expected preferential treatment for his daughter's engagement to the Lord of Pelargir. I am afraid most of what Bregon wrote are details Curuben's actions." She gestured towards the thick stack of the report. "Bregon is conflicted; he wishes to please his soon-to-be father, but as Lord he cannot show favoritism."

"Of course not," Éomer said in agreement.

"There has been a great deal of upheaval in the last years," Lothíriel continued. "Much of the order and procedures which have persisted in Pelargir's politics for decades has been forgotten or cast aside to cope with more immediate problems surrounding the war. Otherwise, Curuben would have a much more difficult time placing himself above the more experienced counsellors!"

Vastly curious—for he knew so little of Lothíriel's occupation and experience in Pelargir, he asked, "And what have _you_ been advising to young Bregon?"

"I have told him that he must revert to the original traditions and order," she said. "Brenion meant to do so himself, but he had so little time, and—" Lothíriel paused, looking away from Éomer briefly before steeling herself, and returning her gaze to him with shining eyes. From tears? "We thought we would have far more time to adjust Pelargir back to normality."

Éomer reached out to grasp her hand at once, and she lowered her head. Unaccustomed as he was at this unusual show of emotion, he did not know what to say. But still he tried— "I think you have advised Bregon correctly," he said softly. "For it will divert any of Curuben's annoyance at being put back into place towards tradition, which is far more difficult to argue with!"

Lothíriel gave a shaky laugh, and she held tightly onto his hand. "I am glad you approve of my ideas," she said. "For soon I am to advise _you_!"

He joined her in laughter, and the easy friendship between them was restored. His betrothed's face now showed no more grief, and she was smiling as she picked up her quill once more. "It is my endeavor to write a shorter letter than Bregon," Lothíriel said, glancing at him with mirth in her eyes. "For otherwise I shall be up until dawn!"

Éomer did not much care to read the contracts he had brought—he was quite tired of business! But at least he had only to read and sign; Lothíriel had the harder task, that evening.

The hearth fire burned out several hours later, and tired of squinting at his papers, Éomer gave it up at last. The unnaturally loud rustle of parchment as he haphazardly folded the rest startled Lothíriel, who looked up from reading her letter.

"Is it so late?" she asked in surprise.

"Indeed," Éomer said, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "My eyes are burning—I must call a respite."

Lothíriel hid a yawn behind her hand as she dropped her papers onto the desk, shaking her head. "You had best be a less needy liegelord than Bregon," she said, a teasing glint in her eyes as she rubbed her fingers ruefully. "I cannot work so fitfully _every_ evening."

"I will not expect it of you!" he laughed. "For I cannot even expect it of myself!"

"Then I can anticipate our marriage with pleasure, with a relief from duty."

There was an odd, expectant silence following her words; Éomer stared at her, but her face betrayed nothing but her usual humor. Did she anticipate their marriage with pleasure, then? _He_ certainly did, but he wondered if she felt for him as intensely as he felt for her. The desire he had to make her laugh, the need for her presence and companionship…

"I ought to go," he said abruptly. "The morrow will begin early."

A slight crease in her brows, hastily smoothed over as she smiled graciously. "Of course. I wish you well on your journey. I hope that you will write to me, and tell me of—of your doings."

Éomer stood, and held out a hand, drawing Lothíriel to her feet. But he did not release her hand. "I would very much like to, if you will reciprocate," he said.

"Naturally! Providing you do not write to such lengths as Bregon…"

They were laughing as they strode through the corridors and towards the front door. Only a few torches were lit, making for a dim journey. When they arrived, Éomer opened the door and blinked in surprise—the moon was painfully bright in his face.

"Thank you for your company tonight," Lothíriel said, and squeezing his hand briefly she let it go. "I would have liked to talk more and work less, but…"

Éomer did not let her continue. "It is no matter. Your presence is enough for me."

Facing him in the moonlight, Lothíriel smiled the smile he loved so much, and it warmed him even in the cold spring night. The moon was shining on her skin, and her hair looked black as night. Words seemed to fail him, and he swallowed thickly.

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "I wished to tell you, I nearly forgot—" And she lifted a fine chain which hung 'round her neck, pulling from beneath the bodice of her frock—his seal ring, which he had given her. Éomer started in surprise, and then laughed.

"A fine place," he teased. "I should hope you will not lose it."

"I would not!" Lothiriel insisted.

"Good." He touched the ring briefly; it was warm from her skin, and as their fingers brushed together, hers seemed to shake slightly. He frowned—did she detest his touch?

No, it could not be—her expression showed no reluctance. Éomer could not help recalling their kiss the day before, when he had been too startled to respond…and his promise to himself to kiss her better. His fingers found her jaw, then her neck. Her lashes fluttered as she sucked in a breath, and he tilted her chin upwards. Grey eyes bore into his, securing him, drawing him close…he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

Innocent as it was, the sudden fire in his veins surely was not. A groan strangled in his throat, and Éomer pulled away quickly. Lothíriel blinked up at him, swaying slightly before catching herself.

"I—I—" she stammered. "I—er, wish you a good journey."

"You have already done so." Éomer attempted to tease, despite the hoarseness in his voice.

"Oh! So I did," Lothíriel said, and her hand flew to her throat, fiddling with her necklace. Then she gave a short laugh. "I apologize for blundering."

"There is no need to apologize."

He did not understand her nerves. Because she wished he had not kissed her, or because he had stopped?

"Three months," she said softly. She was smiling again, and Éomer took it as a good omen. He grinned back, and said,

"Three months."

_June 3020 T.A., Pelargir_

Lothíriel gazed out at at the Anduin below, shimmering and shifting in the sunlight. Her thoughts were elsewhere, which was rare for her temperament, and so she was startled to feel a gentle hand on her arm. She turned quickly, embarrassed to be caught.

"Are you woolgathering?" Nessiel's dancing eyes betrayed the girl's amusement at such a thing, and Lothíriel could not help but laugh at her friend's mischievous grin.

"I suppose I was," she admitted.

"Are you thinking of your betrothed?"

Lothíriel felt a warm flush in her cheeks, and she pressed back a smile. "Now, now, Ness," she scolded half-heartedly. "Simply because you are young and in love and given to romantic starts hardly means that you may assume that everyone is as well."

"I shan't take offense to that," Nessiel said primly. "You were thinking of him; I see that you are blushing."

"Well, perhaps I was. A bride may dream on occasion, no?"

It was Nessiel's turn to flush. Her own wedding had been not two weeks past, and the glow of new love suffused her every expression in a most endearing manner. Lothíriel was familiar with that glow, and how it warmed one's entire being—but she could feel no bitterness that it had been torn from her. She patted her friend's hand, giving a laugh.

"Do not be ashamed to feel love!" Lothíriel said. "That you and Bregon sneak off during dinner, perhaps—but never been ashamed of that love."

Nessiel smiled broadly. "I am too happy to be ashamed." A quiet moment passed, and then the new Lady of Pelargir continued, "Anyways, I think you are absurdly lucky, Lothíriel. My sister saw the King of Rohan in Minas Tirith after the war ended and she spoke of him for months. Many women envy you."

Lothíriel blinked. There were so many retorts on the tip of her tongue, but she merely shook her head. "Envy serves none."

"No," Nessiel agreed slowly. "But it is common enough."

"Too true."

"Do you miss him?"

Lothíriel was stalled once more by her friend's youthful frankness. But it did not offend her. "I do miss him," she said with a smile. "Éomer is good company."

"That is all? Merely good company?" Nessiel's brows were raised in disbelief.

She took her time to clarify her answer. "He makes me feel…safe. Understood. And as if I am enough."

Nessiel squeezed her arm. "But of course! Why would you not be enough?"

Despite herself, Lothíriel's eyes stung with tears. She managed a watery smile, giving a flippant laugh to disguise the true ache in her heart. "Oh, Ness! I am a widow. To many people, I am merely half of what I could be. But still I am myself, with the keen feelings and desires I have always had. Éomer treats me as though I am whole. Not part. He is not afraid to speak to me for fear of offending or causing pain, as even my brothers are. I can be myself, all of myself, when I am with him."

Nessiel's head had tilted slightly during this speech. With a smile playing at her lips, she said, "You love him."

"Oh!" Again Lothíriel blushed, this time a hot, deep red. "You are too romantic by half," she said severely. "Ness, really! It is not so simple."

"Love is the simplest thing there is," Nessiel said tartly. "It is either there, or it is not there."

In many ways, Lothíriel envied her friend such a view. But she could not allow herself to indulge in such fancies, no matter how fervant her dreams, or how keen she fancied her discernment.

"Is—is he very much like Brenion?"

Lothíriel's gut twisted at Nessiel's soft words. No more did the girl smile, and a surprisingly solemn, worried look had come into her eyes. Lothíriel smiled, and said, "Brenion had an open temperament, but Éomer is more…reserved. But when one comes to know him, he is perfectly genial and quite a tease. They—they both…share kindness and courtesy, and display appropriate manners. I can hardly compare," she added quickly, fearing revealing too much. "'Twould feel wrong in all aspects!"

"Does he kiss well?"

Now that was beyond enough! Flushed with heat, Lothíriel shook her head and laughed. "No more questions, Ness! I weary of speaking."

Nessiel sighed. "I do wish I could attend your wedding. It seems such a shame to miss it!"

"It will be a small ceremony; I assure you that you will miss very little."

"I wish to meet your Éomer."

"I hope you do, in time," Lothíriel said with a smile. "Now, I am certain that your worthy husband is meeting with his council this afternoon, you had best run along!"

"Oh! Quite right!" Nessiel planted a hasty kiss on Lothíriel's cheek, and ran away down the hall before stopping, and carrying on at a more sedate pace. Lothíriel hid a laugh at this, before her eyes were drawing back to the river below, sparkling in the sunlight and her heart full of secret dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

_1 July 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Almost to Éomer's surprise, spring passed.

Minas Tirith was nearly identical than when he had departed it in the spring; the marked differences being gardens in full bloom and the hot sun on the back of his neck as he rode up through the sunny streets. And the keen, piercing anxiety he felt, knowing that when next he left the city Lothíriel would be with him as his wife.

They were married the following afternoon in the family dining chamber in Merethrond, done up nicely with garlands of flowers for the occasion. It was extraordinarily tasteful, and so Éomer surmised that it must have been Queen Arwen's doing. Elessar himself performed the ceremony—to the evident relief of Lothíriel beside him, it is was relatively short.

The wedding supper followed, with tables brought back into the room by servants. Éomer, feeling odd from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, had the sensation of being detached from his surroundings as he and his bride, standing awkwardly near the center of the chamber, were quickly congratulated by her family and their friends. He recalled agreeing with Lothíriel that a small wedding without delay would be preferred—but it had been done so quickly that he had not the chance to understand the mighty change his life had just taken. He had not even seen his bride until the ceremony!

As they sat together in the places of honor, Éomer felt Lothíriel's warm hand cover his, and he was surprised to see her smiling.

"I am sorry I could not greet you upon your arrival last night," she said, in a quiet voice just for him. The clamor of dishes being served and their guests engaging in conversation provided privacy for them. She added with her smile turning wry, "I was delayed at Lord Bregon's house, where I have been staying—there was a, ah—dispute between the servants regarding what was mine to be packed for travel and what is supposed to stay."

Éomer had covered her hand with his as she spoke; the intimate touch was setting his heart to pound. How he had missed her! The sparkle in her grey eyes was as familiar as ever, and as beautiful. And now she was his wife!

"It is quite alright," he replied, just as quietly with a smile of his own. "I was disappointed, to be sure, but I was also hardly fit to see you. A two-week ride generally leaves one smelling a tad ripe."

She laughed. "A bad omen for our own journey back to Rohan, I am sure!"

"Hardly! If you are on the journey yourself, you shall already be accustomed to any, er, smells." Éomer's teasing, which started strong, ended on a reluctant note—he did not intend to turn her opinion against their coming journey! But he had underestimated her spirit, for Lothíriel merely smiled and said,

"I think I shall be enjoying my first sights of Rohan too much to notice any smells."

He could not help leaning nearer to her, drawn by the comfort and exhilaration of her presence with his heart and mind filled with so many things he wished to say—but before he could speak, servants approached and began to fill their plates with steaming food.

Lothíriel was presently engaged in a conversation with Queen Arwen on her far side, and so Éomer glanced around the chamber for a few moments—he had barely had a chance to greet Éowyn before the ceremony, and she now was laughing with Amrothos. His head tilted slightly as he studied his sister; she was glowing in a peculiar way, and if he was not mistaken, there was a roundness to her face he had not seen before. Surely—surely not—but he caught sight next of Faramir, and there was no mistaking the glint of pride in the steward's eyes; nay,  _smugness_.

Well! Éomer had hardly expected to become an uncle so soon.

Imrahil, on his left, leaned over to speak. "Was your journey smooth, Éomer? You did not take the Dimholt Pass, I presume."

"We did not; the evacuations are not scheduled to be finished for two more months."

"Hmm. Well, I had hoped, that when we travel to Rohan for Lothíriel's coronation, that we might at least return by the Dimholt Pass."

Éomer wondered if this was a polite way of asking for hospitality in Meduseld until the shorter road was safe to travel. But it was an unkind thought towards his—oh  _Béma_ , Imrahil was now his father by marriage! He swallowed, and already regretting the loss of a relatively empty Meduseld for himself and his newly-wedded wife, said stiffly,

"If you have a desire to be the maiden company to travel through the Dimholt—you are welcome to stay in Rohan as long as you like."

Imrahil laughed at this—and Éomer wondered why until the prince spoke. "You are too generous! I am sure that none of my sons, nor I, wish to intrude upon your hospitality longer than needful. There will be many opportunities to see one another in the years to come, especially when the Pass opens for travellers. But Lothíriel must adjust to her new home this once— I daresay she will fare better without us. We shall only stay for the celebrations."

The sun was sinking through the western windows as the final course was served the chamber was awash in orange light. Candles were presently lit, and Éomer continued to hold Lothíriel's hand though their attentions were otherwise diverted. It strengthened him somehow, and the distraction of Imrahil's conversation kept him from becoming nervous. For now that the ceremony and supper were over…

Éomer felt a hand clap on his shoulder, and he started guiltily.

"We must leave," said Elphir, who was carrying his son in his arms. Little Alphros was rubbing his eyes sleepily. Elphir's wife, Naimith, was kissing Lothíriel farewell. Evidently the party was ending—Éomer saw that servants were bearing away empty plates and platters.

"Thank you for coming," he told Elphir, shaking the prince's hand.

"We are glad that we could at last attend a wedding of my sister's— _ouch_!" Elphir winced—his wife had dug a finger into his ribs, and she looked daggers at her husband. Éomer saw Lothíriel suppressing a smile, and he too, felt laughter threaten.

"It was a lovely wedding," Naimith said. "My best wishes to you and your queen, my lord."

"I—thank you."

And the little family was the first to leave. But before Éomer had a moment to even wonder what protocol demanded of him next, Amrothos was there, grinning as he bent down to kiss the top of his sister's head.

"I am sorry I have not had a chance to speak to the two of you yet," he told them. "I suggested to Father that every fifteen minutes or so the guests move one place over so that everyone can have a conversation with the bridal couple. Oddly enough, he did not like the idea."

"It sounds a hassle!" Lothíriel laughed. "Think of having to carry your plate with you! But a fine idea, in theory."

Amrothos preened at this compliment before continuing. "The weather is going to be fine, tomorrow. Perhaps we could all go on a ride—I need to adjust myself to the saddle again before we leave for Rohan. It has been too long since my last journey. I can ask others to join us, too."

An awkward silence. Éomer sensed that Lothíriel's shining eyes were on him, but did not know the emotion in them.

"Very well," she said, and if he was not mistaken—there was a measure of reluctance in her voice. But Amrothos did not hear it.

"Excellent! Now, I have been tasked with taking Éomer away now. I hope you will forgive me, sister, but Éowyn will be coming for you—ah, as soon as she is done speaking to Queen Arwen."

Take him away? Éomer felt a flash of confusion, but decided that it must be custom in Gondor. Perhaps he should have striven to know more of the Gondorian wedding traditions Imrahil had warned him of, but it was too late now. Still holding Lothíriel's hand, he gave it a brief squeeze and a smile. Her answering smile was beaming, and there was a flush in her cheeks.

"Amrothos is not allowed to hurt you. Do not fear!" she said to him.

"I do not fear," Éomer murmured, and barely had a chance to press a kiss to her hand before his new brother hauled him up and led him from the dining chamber.


	8. Chapter 8

_1 July 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

They had been given a set of guest chambers in Merethrond at the generosity of Elessar. It would have been strange for them to stay in Lothíriel's house, which technically belonged to the Lord of Pelargir, or Imrahil's own house. Éomer did not question the wisdom. But in the dim flickering light of the receiving room, he had the chance to grow nervous. Incredibly nervous.

After Amrothos, Erchirion, and Faramir had left (following a fair consumption of wine and much talking and perhaps too much teasing), Éomer had only to go now to his bride. She would be ready for him, he had been told. But now his nerves were flaring in protest.

He had never been brave enough to speak to Lothíriel about their wedding night, and being ignorant of the lady's feelings only worsened his worry. What if she feared him? What if she feared betraying Lord Brenion's memory? What if she did not wish to consummate their marriage at all, or to wait until they were more acquainted? Until they loved one another, perhaps? These thoughts squeezed his chest uncomfortably as he lifted his fist to knock at the door.

 _Thump, thump_.

Silence. Then, "Come in."

Oh, Béma. His legs nearly wobbled, but sternly Éomer forced himself to stand straight, and he opened the door.

Lothíriel was sitting at a desk near the hearth. A few candles burned inside of it instead of a proper fire, it being summer and the nights still warm. The glowing light made the stark whiteness of her nightgown which peeked from the folds of her dark dressing gown all the brighter, and he swallowed. She glanced up from where she had been writing, and smiled.

"Good evening," Lothíriel said, setting her quill in the inkpot. "I was just writing to Nessiel. She demanded that I send her a full account of our wedding without delay, as she could not attend herself."

She had been corresponding with a friend on their wedding night? Éomer did not know what to think—on the one hand, he was enormously relieved that there was no sign of nervousness from Lothíriel, but it did seem a bit odd, all in all. She was nonplussed, shaking the parchment to dry the ink before setting it back down.

"I am not sure if I will have the opportunity to write tomorrow," she confessed, and if he was not mistaken, there was a tinge of pink in her cheeks. "I only wished to make a start—I have been waiting for you this half-hour."

"I am sorry," Éomer said at once. "Your brothers—"

"I know." The shadows flickered across her dimples as she gazed up at him from her seat. A lump formed in his throat; he tried to swallow again, but to little avail. Her hair was loose and hanging enticingly down her back—did she know how he had longed to tangle his fingers in her tresses? The flickering light made flecks of gold appear in her eyes, molten and warm. Éomer could not speak—he did not know what to say, and she stood. They faced each other, and he was sure his heart would beat out of his chest.

"Éomer," she said softly, though she still smiled. "Are you going to kiss me?"

"Are you afraid?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.

"No," Lothíriel laughed. "I am no maiden—perhaps you have forgotten. Are  _you_  nervous?"

Éomer did not want to admit it—what would this wonderful woman think of him? But he could not lie.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Strangely enough, there was no judgement in her expression, only a softening concern as she gazed up at him. Confidence made him speak—he knew that she would not think ill of him. She possessed too good a heart.

"You have been wed before," Éomer said. "And you were happy—I worry that I will not be able to please you as Brenion did. Nor do I wish to usurp your memories."

Lothíriel smiled, and her hand lifted to touch his face. He nearly flinched away from her; the tingling from where she touched him spread across his entire being, which he had not expected from so simple an action. "I was happy, yes. But I intend to be happy again, Éomer. You asked  _me_  to marry you—and I must beg of you, please do not reconsider  _now_." Her voice trembled from amusement, and maybe something more—he had not realized how closely they were standing to one another. He could see the dark lashes around her sparkling eyes and the moisture on her lips. Oh, Béma!

His hand shook slightly as he took hers from his face and clasped it tightly, holding it over his beating heart. Éomer wondered if she could feel it—or if hers matched his. The flush in her cheeks had darkened, and he could hear her breath catch. Was he imagining her desire? He dearly hoped not—

The expectant, tense silence was broken by his bride. "You do not have to ask," Lothíriel said softly, and sighed, her body leaning towards his. "Éomer…"

He kissed her, softly at first with a great deal of control on his part. The response was immediate; her hands clenched into his tunic and her lips parted in invitation. Éomer groaned low in his throat to have Lothíriel against him in such a way. There was heat, pleasant and agonizing heat, and he grasped her face to tilt it upwards, deepening the kiss.

Her fingers were making short work of the ties on his tunic. Éomer felt her soft touch on his chest, exploring him. Well—she had not lied when she said she was not afraid. He found the silken cord at the waist of dressing gown, and gave it a decisive tug.

A throaty giggle from Lothíriel, but Éomer ignored it, pushing the robe from her shoulders and hearing it  _flump_  to the floor. The warmth from her body could be felt now—a sweet scent, so near and so tempting. He traced the embroidered neckline of her nightgown with his fingers, but she broke away, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glittering.

"'Tis  _your_  turn, husband," she laughed. "We are equals in this." And she pulled his tunic upwards, lifting it as he obligingly raised his arms—and stopped. Éomer stared down at her, confused and feeling not a bit foolish with his shirt bunched under his arms. "I cannot reach higher," Lothíriel said with an owlish blink. "Oh—oh, dear. I had not considered that."

Éomer could not help himself—he laughed. As she flushed a lovely scarlet, he tugged the tunic over his head himself and discarded it. "We shall have to see about getting you a stool," he teased.

Her lips pursed in withheld laughter. "Or perhaps you could kneel."

"Only for you," Éomer murmured, drawing her closer by the waist. It was quite noticeable that there was only her thin nightgown separating them… But her eyes were not on his any longer, they had travelled downward, and her smile had hardened into something—well, almost  _hungry_. Her fingers brushed against the fine hair on his chest, and goose pimples broke out across his skin.

"What is it?" Éomer asked hoarsely. Lothíriel returned her gaze to his face, and he thought he might drown in her eyes.

"Hmm?" she said, her brows lifting innocently.

"You are thinking. Do not deny it—I can see your expression very well."

"I am thinking," Lothíriel said, and her voice had grown husky. "You are not what I am accustomed to, Éomer of Rohan."

No further explanation came, and patiently he asked, "Are you going to elaborate?"

"Not at present!" she laughed. "I am afraid a comprehensive answer may take more thought, and my thinking is a bit, well,  _hindered_."

"Hindered?"

She was suppressing a smile as her hands glided across his bare shoulders and up his neck, leaving a trail of goose pimples where she touched. "Do keep kissing me, Éomer. I like my thinking to be hindered."

Gladly he would, a hundred times over! He kissed her again, and again, and his lips moved to her jaw and her throat as he buried his hand in her soft curls, wafting the most pleasant scent to him. He tasted and smelled her skin, so uniquely her, and it drove him wild. Lothíriel's breathing grew shallow, and he was rewarded with a long, contented sigh.

Éomer pulled away, leaving his wife trembling as she gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Go on," she whispered.

He lifted the laces of her nightdress, which lay on her breasts. The skin there was glowing golden in the candlelight, and he saw the rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed. Éomer pulled one lace, and then the other, exposing a great deal more of her golden skin. His fingers lingered there, wanting to explore… Lothíriel's lips had parted as she sucked in a ragged breath.

Without pause he finished unlacing her nightgown, and after a breathless moment it fluttered to the ground. He had not been prepared for the sight—she was  _beautiful_ ; smooth and supple and smiling up at him. If he was not mistaken, there was a small bit of nervousness in her eyes, the first he had seen.

"You are perfect," Éomer forced himself to say.

"Oh—I am not—"

"You are," he murmured, dipping his head once more to taste her lovely lips. "Oh, you are! I promise you that."

Lothíriel's head tilted back, and he felt her sigh into his mouth even as her fingers dug into the flesh of his arms, " _Ah_ , Éomer…take me to bed."

He was more than happy to obey this, and in his eagerness he picked her up like a child, carrying her in his arms towards the neatly-made bed as she laughed.

"You do make a woman feel small," she said, her eyes dancing as he gently set her down to sit upon the bed. She clenched his hand before he could pull away, her eyes hungrily staring up at him. Éomer was drawn forward until he lay beside her. The bed sunk under his weight, but he pretended not to notice—he would not be hindered by shoddy Gondorian carpentry, and wasted no time to continue their kissing.

She was all softness, sweet and passionate. Without realizing it, he was hardly nervous any longer—however he feared disappointing her, she was giving him back every confidence. He  _did_  please her, if her throaty whimpers were any indication, and she welcomed him into her arms. His body was responding to hers in some unknowable, instinctive way that he was not sure he could control, even if he wished to…and if he had any power of discernment, he would wager that  _her_  actions were governed by the same instinct.

It was some time until things were calm and quiet—Éomer, nuzzling the throat of his wife, did not wish to move, and Lothíriel's fingers clenched into his arms, as if she as wished him to stay. She gave a long, shuddering sigh of breath, and unsure how to go on now that they truly  _were_  husband and wife, Éomer lifted his head to gaze down at her.

But—to his utter dismay—there were tears shining in her large, grey eyes, despite the tremulous smile she offered him.

"Oh, you mustn't take me too seriously!" Lothíriel said thickly, with a forced laugh. "I—I am only—" She broke off, biting her lips together.

Éomer propped himself on his elbows, pushing the stray hair from her forehead as gently as he could. He liked the flush in her cheeks and that he had put it there—but he could hardly gloat, for his heart was twisting with unhappiness at her emotion. "Lothíriel…" he said gently. "You are my wife now. Your pain is my pain."

"It should not be," she whispered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, her hands unclenching to travel to his chest and up his shoulders, as if drawing strength from him. Hoarsely he said, "Tell me."

She drew another shaking breath. "It is only—I am ashamed to say, I cannot help but—but feel some, er, remorse. Not to be married to you!" Lothíriel said quickly as Éomer blinked down at her in confusion. "Oh—oh, come lay by me! I can hardly concentrate with you atop me in such a way."

He obliged, though he did not remove his gaze from her face. After they were more comfortably settled, facing each other side-by-side, Lothíriel spoke again, her eyes unusually serious. "It is a singularly odd feeling," she said. "Perhaps other twice-wed women would understand more fully. Éomer, there are times—" She broke off, swallowing. He stroked his fingers upwards on her back, willing her to continue though unwilling to pressure her.

"You do not make me sad, Éomer," she said firmly after a moment, drawing her brows close in determination. "You make me—quite happy. Do not doubt that! But there are times when you—you remind me of Brenion, or of what I had with Brenion…" Lothíriel trailed off, then steeled herself once more. "I should not feel guilty, for I am not betraying him. But…sharing with you what I have only shared with him…it is complicated, I suppose."

Éomer was silent for a moment, unsure how to understand what his wife was telling him. That he made her happy, but that she feared betrayed Brenion, or his memory? As he thought, she frowned, and earnestly she said,

"Éomer, I do not regret wedding you!"

"That is well and good," he said, and gave her a smile. "For I do not, either. Whatever grief you experience, I wish to comfort you however I can. Lothíriel, I—" Now it was his turn to stumble on his words, and Éomer hesitated. And in his hesitation, he cowered from the truth and spoke differently than he had intended. "I am your husband now," he tweaked her nose with a grin. "You must let me be a good one! I daresay you will have many suggestions for how I ought to go on. But I hope that you will trust me with—with your heart and its burdens."

Lothíriel's lips had lifted in a smile as he spoke. "You are too good to me, Éomer. I fear becoming a burden to  _you_."

"Well—I am strong enough for both of us, I think." And the arrogant shrug he gave sent her into peals of laughter. Her megrims gone, she shifted nearer to him, and he wrapped his arms around her in utter contentment.

And later, as her soft, sleeping breaths filled his ears, Éomer felt peace, and wondered at it.


	9. Chapter 9

Despite waking before dawn, Éomer had no inclination to rise for the day. It was a singularly odd feeling; for as long as he could remember, he had always woken early and begun work straightway—whether that work was patrols, training with his eored, or more recently, coping with the duties of being king. He had always taken pride in working hard for his people.

But that day…there were no councillors waiting for him and _no_ meetings. Éomer could not recall if this had ever happened before. Well, it hardly signified—even if there _were_ councillors banging on the door, he would make a point to ignore them.

Lothíriel slumbered on beside him, her face turned towards him and the early dawn light making her skin pale. Her dark lashes were in stark contrast, and Éomer was sure he had never heard a better sound that her light, even breathing. His chest tightened as he watched her—she looked so young while she slept!

Hoping not to wake her, Éomer brushed away stray curls from her bare shoulder, his fingers lingering on the soft skin there. He leaned over and pressed his lips to her shoulder, tasting her scent and her warmth, and he breathed in deeply.

" _I love you_ ," he whispered, nuzzling his nose to her shoulder. Béma, didn't he just—

She moved then, startling him as she yawned widely, stretching her arms above her head as he quickly leaned back. Then her eyes opened, and she blinked up at him. Éomer offered a tremulous smile, but Lothíriel's answering smile was broad.

"I know," she murmured. Then she sighed, and turned to nestle nearer to him.

"You—you know?" Éomer asked hoarsely.

"Mmm."

"That—that—"

"That you love me? Yes, indeed." Lothíriel's eyes had fluttered shut again, though her smile remained. He tucked a curl behind her ear, somehow unable to keep from touching her. But she did not appear to mind one bit.

"How?"

She peeked open an eye, gazing at him as she gently touched his beard, her thumb brushing against his skin. "Your eyes have told me so a hundred times."

Éomer blinked dumbly. "But—" and then he stopped. Lothíriel's brow lifted.

"But what?" she prompted.

"I feel so foolish…I thought you did not know. I thought—we had agreed upon a marriage of convenience, I put my feelings aside, or at least I tried to—"

Her hand clasped over his mouth, effectively stopping his spiel. "I," she said slowly, her eyes shining brightly into his. "Would _never_ marry for convenience." It took a moment for Éomer to understand what she was saying, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat.

"Well!" he said lightly. "Is there something that _your_ eyes need to tell _me_ , then?"

She laughed. "Oh, Éomer! If you do not already know, I should think you quite hopeless! I do not think that what we felt last night was merely my imagination."

His mind was struggling at this incomprehensible notion. Licking his lips, he asked, "You—you love me?"

"Yes." Lothíriel's smile was beaming, and Éomer could barely breathe—she _loved_ him? _She_ loved _him_?

"But—Brenion—"

Her smile faded somewhat. "I remember Brenion fondly, and I always will," she said softly. "But he is dead, and death cannot be undone. I, on the other hand, am quite alive—because I have loved and lost does not diminish the strength nor yearnings of my heart."

Éomer's voice was gruff. "Why did you not tell me so?" It would have saved him a great deal of angst…but he could not admit that to her, of course.

"Oh!" Lothíriel's cheeks pinked. "There is only my vanity to blame, I suppose. I wanted you to tell me you loved me first."

"I have loved you for _months_ ," he said, and before he could stop himself, he continued in a rush, "Perhaps even since the night we met—I was sure, when I first saw you, that—that, I do not know quite how to explain this—I felt that our souls were connected in some unknowable way, or that we were fated to, well, to love each other."

She was laughing again, not cruelly, and her toes brushing against his leg—as far down as she could reach, he guessed, and he could not help chuckling a little, too. "I was not thinking that," Lothíriel said thoughtfully after a moment. "No, I was too involved with Brenion. But I wonder now—perhaps—I think…you _could_ be correct."

Éomer nuzzled his nose to hers. "Do you think so?"

"I might! That is to say, after last night—I might believe in _anything_." Her voice had grown that lovely husky quality again, and her eyes were dark. He could feel heat—not just heat of the quilts which covered them—spreading down his torso, and he grinned.

"Does this mean that I only have to make love to you, and you will agree to anything I say?"

Lothíriel arched a brow. "You had best not try! I should hate to think that I have revealed too much of myself to my new husband."

Éomer enjoyed their banter, but he was ready to get on with it—he drew her tightly into his arms, and kissed her ferociously, possessively. She responded hungrily, as if she, too, had been controlling her passion. Oh, Béma! How did he deserve such a wife?

For all their withheld love the previous night, now it was expressed openly, eagerly, passionately. Éomer murmured his adoration between languid kisses. There was plenty of time to explore and know each other, plenty of time… He savored the taste of the soft skin of her belly, moving downwards beneath the covers. His feet hung off the end of the bed, and again Éomer had uncharitable thoughts for shoddy Gondorian carpentry.

His wife gave a ragged cry, her legs clenching 'round his shoulders. It was stuffy and hot, but he did not care—Lothiriel's responses were worth any discomfort. She squirmed to be closer to him, moaning his name aloud. Éomer felt his own heat across his body, trying to be patient for her sake, but wanting her all the same…

There was a resounding knock at the door. His heart hammering, Éomer lifted his head. He felt Lothíriel's clammy hand grasp his shoulder painfully as she took long, shuddering breaths. Again the knock came, and his wife called in a trembling voice,

"Who is it?"

"It is me, of course," came the muffled reply. Amrothos, curse him! Why in Arda was he there? But Éomer did not care to give the man any thought—he returned his attention to his wife, and Lothíriel arched beneath him, a near-silent moan telling him her pleasure. "You said you might want to go for a ride today," Amrothos continued, oblivious to what was going on behind the door. Frankly Éomer thought he would not _want_ to know. It was fortunate he had latched the door the previous night…

"So I did!" Lothíriel cried as her limbs tensed, and her fingers buried tightly into his hair. Éomer was impressed at her self-control—he would have shouted at Amrothos to go away already. "But Amrothos—I was referring to this afternoon. Supper last night went very— _ahhh_ —late!"

"'Tis nearly noon!" Amrothos said, his indignant tone quite obvious.

"Nearly being the key word," Lothíriel replied, with a soft gasp meant just for Éomer. "Amrothos— _we are still sleeping!"_

Perhaps the agony in her voice would be obvious to her brother as it was to Éomer—but no. Nor did he seem to recognize the lie. With an audible huff, the prince said, "Fine! Then you shall have to come find me when you are ready. I shan't try again!" And they could hear his footsteps as he departed.

"Oh, Great Ulmo below!" Lothíriel breathed a moment later. "Oh, Éomer! You—you are irrepressible!"

Chuckling, he nipped the inside of her thigh. "You did not wish me to stop, my love. I rather think _you_ are irrepressible."

She responded with a breathy sigh. "I _told_ Amrothos days ago that if he bothered us I would have you thrash his arse. I did not think he would ignore me so blatantly, Éomer—and for that I am sorry. But you may just have to thrash his arse!"

Éomer laughed loudly then, emerging from the covers with what he was sure was messy appearance but a very smug smile. Lothíriel gazed down at him, her cheeks flushed prettily and her eyes sparkling. "Well!" he said lightly. "Serves you right for commiting us to go on a ride with your brother today! I am sorely tempted to thrash his arse, yes, whether you threatened him or not. How untimely an interruption!"

"Yes, but he gone now!" she said, with a very satisfied smile as one of her legs wrapped around his hip, urging him closer.

"All well and good," Éomer murmured, kissing the hollow at her throat. "Then I will worry about Amrothos later…"

"Good!"

And it was very good that Amrothos had left, for he might have eventually understood the noises that were undoubtedly now filtering through the door.

Afterwards they lay together, limbs intertwined and both breathing heavily, though his racing heart began to calm as he ran his fingers through his wife's mussed hair. Her eyes were closed, her head on his shoulder as a content smile pulled at her lips.

"You have made me so happy," he said softly, kissing her forehead.

"Just now, do you mean? Or—?"

"Wench! You have _always_ made me happy, Lothíriel. My wife." Éomer liked the taste of these words in his mouth, and savored them. Breathing in deeply the unique scent which clung to her skin, he murmured, "I do love you."

"And I you." She gave a small sigh, before saying, "Do you think we ought to go riding with Amrothos? Put him out of his miserable impatience, I mean."

"If you like. I am rather indifferent to a ride today." And indeed, he wished for nothing more than Lothíriel in his arms, and that he already had. Though there certainly was a desire to see Éowyn, and to discover if she truly was with child as he half-expected. Would she still be travelling to Rohan for Lothíriel's coronation, he wondered.

"Is my sister pregnant?" Éomer asked aloud, only belatedly realizing the odd turn he had made of conversation. His wife lifted her head, perhaps a little surprised, and withholding a twitching smile.

"Why do you ask?"

"I am allowed to ask! I am her brother. And I didn't have a blasted moment to speak to her yesterday!"

Lothíriel's lips were pressed together. "Perhaps you should ask _her_."

Éomer's eyes narrowed. Her fingers were tapping restlessly against his chest, and at last a laugh burst from her.

"She swore me to secrecy! Éowyn wanted to tell you herself, so you had best act surprised when she tells you—no need to blame my inability to keep secrets." And with that, Lothíriel harrumped, though she was clearly not too upset. Though he so desperately wished to laugh—his wife was positively _adorable_ —Éomer frowned.

"And are there any more secrets you have in your keeping, my love?"

Lothíriel gasped in affront. "I have no secrets! And Éowyn's are her own, not mine."

"Good."

"But now you had best tell me if _you_ have any secrets, husband of mine."

Éomer grinned. "Secrets? Me? I am hardly in the habit. You already know my only secret, which is that I love you."

She returned his smile, propping her chin against his shoulder with that familiar twinkle in her eyes that he loved so much. "It is not a secret anymore," Lothíriel said. "I hope that we may show everyone that we love each other."

"Certainly! It would be too difficult to pretend otherwise in public anyway—"

Her answering scoff at this ridiculous vow spurned on even more laughter, more teasing, and more loving.

The ride was quite forgotten; at least by them. Amrothos told everyone that would listen about how his sister had promised a ride and never showed up, showing a distinct lack of integrity on her part, and a terrible selfishness on Éomer's.


	10. Chapter 10

Autumn was a blessed relief that year. Éomer was sure he had never before suffered through so hot a summer, and that he had worn his armor nearly the entire time had not helped one bit. Had the weather cooperated, he might have enjoyed fighting alongside Aragorn and their friends a bit more, but as it were—he had missed the cool shade of Meduseld, and his wife.

Four months he had been away, fighting in the southern regions of Gondor. He nearly felt a foreigner trudging up Edoras's blowsy street, leading Firefoot by the reins; he must have become accustomed to the arid desert with its merciless sun. The welcome breezes from the northeast had greeted his company as soon as they entered the Mark over the Mering Stream, and though the relief was immediate, Éomer would not rest until he saw Lothíriel again.

He had missed her _terribly_ ; on the loneliest nights he thought his heart might burst from his chest for wanting to be with her so badly. Éomer had not worried about leaving Rohan in her hands—he knew she was capable, and the people of the Mark loved their charming, capable queen. No, that was not his concern at all.

Meduseld was a marvelous sight; shining gold with unusual activity pouring around it as soldiers were reunited with their families, much laughter and tears echoing on the wind. And best of all—standing in front of the oaken doors, was Lothíriel.

It almost made the months apart disappear in an instant. _Almost_.

Éomer gave Firefoot to an eager stablehand, and without waiting he took the steps two at a time, drinking in the sight of his wife. When he was near enough to see, she was smiling broadly, her eyes not moving from his face as he ascended the terrace.

He would have swept her into his arms straightaway, but she held the welcome cup in her hands, and he was forced to stand back. Though he could admire her perfectly well from the short distance—her dark hair was loose, blown about by the persistent wind, and she wore a dark red woollen frock. Apart from the color of her hair, she looked a perfect Rohirric queen—but Éomer thought she was perfect, anyway, and his eyes continued to rove over her appreciatively. There was a slight swell of her belly which disturbed the folds of her dress, and he stared, taken aback by this change.

" _Westú Éomer hál_!"

Astonished, his gaze returned to her face, and if he were not mistaken, her cheeks had pinked. But she was smiling, all the same. Éomer took the cup, drinking deeply the familiar taste of mead before passing it to a servant. Now that her hands were empty, Lothíriel clasped them below her belly, accentuating the swell all the more.

"I must surmise that you did not receive any of my letters," she said, observing his surprise.

"No." Éomer's voice was hoarse.

"Ah, well—I thought they might go astray. Messages are terribly unreliable, when one is off fighting battles." There was a sparkle in her eyes, and from the tilt of her smile he suspected she was feeling rather smug. "Well?" Lothíriel asked, her brows arching. "Are you going to greet us properly, or stand there gaping like a fish?"

_Us_.

Oh, Béma!

Disregarding that they were likely being watched by many interested parties, Éomer wrapped his arms about his wife and swung her around in the air, his heart fit to burst. She clung to him, her laughter joining his. When at last he put her back on her feet, her hair was mussed and she was flushed with pleasure. Lothíriel gazed up at him with her usual, knowing smile, and he leaned down to kiss her properly.

Breathlessly they broke apart a moment later. Éomer nuzzled his nose to hers, smelling in her sweet scent. "I missed you," he murmured.

"And I you. Now cease dawdling and come inside—I have much to tell you."

_**FIN** _


End file.
